


City of Light

by Bonetree (Todesfuge)



Series: Goshen Universe [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-01
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 162,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesfuge/pseuds/Bonetree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and<br/>Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government<br/>agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they<br/>must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them<br/>apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

********

CITY OF LIGHT

 

"....My only advice is not to go away.  
Or, go away. Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water  
To my face. I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what  
Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I will never see again,  
There are two things I want to remember  
About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, blue eyes at an airport -- how they widened  
As if in disbelief;  
And her opening the gate to a lit & silent

City."

\-- a variation on Larry Levis' "In the City of Light"

 

***********

NEAR JOSHUA TREE, CALIFORNIA  
MOJAVE DESERT  
MARCH 18  
5:47 p.m.

 

The headlights of the ancient Bronco raked the cracked pavement in  
front of it, piercing through the deep glow of the sunset over the  
desert, the sky fading as if a shroud were being pulled down across  
the wide white sun that hung cloudless on the horizon. The truck was  
moving fast, the engine thundering against the craggy tan of rocky  
outcroppings that crouched around the road, the sound seeming to echo  
through the open window on the driver's side.

Whizzing past the window, the odd shapes of Joshua trees, gnarled  
and spiked and bent at strange angles against the darkening sky.  
They stood on the barren landscape like wizened figures frozen in  
place, the branches twisted and covered with their strange layers of  
harsh green.

Mulder watched them pass out of the corner of his eye, though his  
gaze was shifting back and forth between the road ahead and the rear  
view mirror. He reached up and scrubbed at his beard nervously,  
smoothing it down, a habit he'd picked up since it had grown out.  
Then his hand returned its iron grip on the steering wheel, guiding  
the truck around a wide curve in the road that angled around another  
small hill of rock and sand.

He glanced to the side, at the woman on the wide bench seat beside  
him. Scully was sitting with her back against the door, her arm  
thrown over the back of the seat, her gaze out the back window. Her  
face was grim, creased, as she stared behind them, her body tensed.  
He could see the muscles of her left arm shaking slightly as her hand  
gripped the seat back.

From the trembling, he knew how tired she was. The shaking always  
gave it away.

"Anything?" he asked finally into the silence between them.

Scully kept her eyes on the road, said nothing for a long moment.  
He let the silence linger, trusting her to speak when she was  
certain. Trusting her.

They hadn't spoken since they'd left the highway 20 minutes ago,  
heading down the shabby road that wound its way through Joshua Tree  
National Park, one of the most desolate places Mulder had ever seen.  
Even with the weeks they'd spent in the desert, this place seemed the  
most remote to him. He felt as though they were the last two people  
on earth.

Right now, he hoped they were.

Finally, Scully turned in her seat, her arm coming down as she faced  
forward again.

"They didn't follow us," she said.

The "they" she referred to was two policemen in a state police car  
who had picked up their tail as they'd left Yucca Valley. Scully had  
seen them from the window of their tiny motel room there as two  
policemen drove up and entered the office, asking the manager  
questions as she watched them through the office's window.

Mulder had been sleeping behind her when she suddenly sat down on  
the side of the bed, pulling on her shoes as she spoke to him with  
urgency.

"Mulder, we have to go. We have to get out of here," she'd said,  
and he'd bolted upright immediately in the bed at the sound of her  
voice, its tone.

"What is it?" He wasn't even bleary as he asked it. His nerves,  
like hers, were constantly on edge.

"Police. Asking questions."

He'd glanced at the window. "Scully, it could be nothing," he tried  
to soothe, putting a hand on her back. She'd tensed at the touch and  
risen, tossing a couple of things into her open suitcase on its  
holder.

"We can't take the chance," she said hurriedly, and her voice shook,  
but not with tears. Knowing there was no way to talk her out of her  
panic once it gripped her, he rose and began to dress quickly.

They were in the car and out of the motel, the key left on the  
bureau, before the police could leave the office. Everything had  
seemed fine for the long moments as they wove toward the highway.

Then the car had appeared, seeming to follow them. It tailed them  
onto the interstate, through the desert on the outskirts of a little  
outpost town called Joshua Tree.

It didn't follow them closely, but it did stay behind them, a  
persistent presence in the rear view mirror.

Mulder had watched it the entire way, his eyes hidden behind  
sunglasses while the sun still shone brightly against the pale sand.  
For her part, Scully sat still in the seat beside him, her hair  
tucked back into a small knot, the white dress shirt of his that she  
wore accentuating the paleness of her skin. Her white-knuckled hand  
on the door handle was the only thing that belied her emotions.

"I'm getting off this road," he announced as they left Joshua Tree  
and entered the national park. She nodded, reaching for the worn map  
between them. He'd pulled off onto a side road and sped out of sight  
around a sharp curve before the police car could catch up with them  
enough to notice the turn.

Now he pulled off his sunglasses, tossed them on the dash  
haphazardly, blowing out a breath at her announcement that they  
hadn't been followed. He didn't mean for it to sound as frustrated  
as it did. Scully's reaction, he could see as he glanced at her, was  
immediate. She stared down, suddenly intent on the map, her hands.

 

"I'm sorry," she said softly, barely audible over the truck's huge  
engine.

He looked at her for a moment, then back at the road. The desert  
stretched out around them, the headlights seeming to brighten as the  
sky continued to darken, the sun dipping below the horizon now, a  
semicircle of white light.

"It's okay," he replied gently, reached over to grip her trembling  
forearm.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I shouldn't have overreacted  
like that." She looked out the window, away from him as she spoke.  
"They were probably just following us because we left in such a  
hurry."

"You don't know that," he said, wishing she would look at him.  
"They could have been acting on a description of us. You could have  
been right."

She shook her head again, looking down at where his hand touched her  
arm. Slowly she reached down and put her hand on top of his.

"I know how tired you were," she murmured, her voice showing her own  
exhaustion now as the tension receded. "How much you needed to  
sleep."

He didn't disagree with that. They'd been driving for hours, up  
from El Centro near the Mexican border. They'd avoided crossing the  
border to stay away from Customs, who might have their descriptions.  
They had false identification thanks to the Gunmen, but there was no  
way to hide their faces. Though Mulder was trying with the beard.

"How far until the next town going this way?" he asked, moving his  
arm back to the steering wheel to let her adjust the map. She  
reached up and flicked on the interior light, studied the map for a  
long moment.

"There's a place called Twentynine Palms coming up in about 50  
miles," she said.

"That's too close," he replied, shaking his head. "In case you were  
right about those cops, I'd like to put some distance from where we  
were."

She nodded. "All right." She returned her gaze to the map. "Well,  
if we're really going to head back into Arizona, the next closest  
place is Parker. It's on an Indian reservation -- we'd be safer  
there. It's about 180 miles, though. Can you make it that far?"  
Her eyes filled with concern as she looked at him.

He rubbed at his beard again, trying not to grimace. "Yeah, I can  
make it," he said with an assurance he didn't quite feel. He  
returned her gaze, forced a wane smile. "You should lie down and get  
some sleep, though. I know you're running on fumes."

Without meaning to, he glanced down at her hand, which was sending  
the map into shivers. She saw him looking at it and dropped her hand  
into the shadows in her lap, hiding it from his view.

He regretted his action immediately; she was very self-conscious  
about the nerve damage to her hand caused by her exposure to Owen  
Curran's drug. The injury could end her career as a pathologist,  
perhaps as an FBI agent. It was something they tried not to discuss,  
one of the many unspoken subjects that travelled with them, between  
them.

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear the moment with it.

"I'll stay up with you," she said finally into the awkward silence,  
flicked off the overhead light and settled into her seat a bit more.  
The interior of the car was washed in darkness now, the blue-white  
lights of the dash giving their faces a ghostly glow.

He turned to glance at her. Her expression was a mask, unreadable.

"All right," he replied softly, then returned his eyes to the road,  
the headlights the only lights for as far as he could see.

 

**********

MESQUITE MOTEL  
PARKER, ARIZONA  
COLORADO RIVER INDIAN RESERVATION  
9:45 p.m.

 

Mulder made his way slowly across the parking lot of the dingy  
motel, the key to room 14 dangling from his limp fist. He ached all  
over, his back sore, his legs stiff in his worn jeans. The edge of  
his white t-shirt hung out one side of the waist band, dipping just  
below the bottom of the denim jacket he'd picked up a few weeks ago  
at a thrift shop in a town whose name he couldn't remember anymore.

There were so many towns. He'd lost count of them, as well.

Almost two months on the road and his life had become a blur of sand  
and highway, diners, midnight stops at gas stations, worn mattresses  
and too-thin sheets. His skin was deeply tanned now, and he'd begun  
to notice the beginnings of creases around his eyes, the squinting  
against the persistent sun and the strain of the life they were  
living aging him, making him look care-worn.

Between that and the beard he now wore, he sometimes barely  
recognized himself in the gas station bathroom mirrors he passed.  
The face that stared back at him as he combed his lengthening hair in  
mirrors of a dozen motels seemed strange to him. Like he was turning  
into someone else.

He sighed with the thoughts, approaching the Bronco now. He pulled  
the creaking door open, startling Scully awake on the passenger side,  
her head bolting up from where it had slumped against the back of the  
seat.

"Mulder?" she asked quickly, breathless as her eyes scanned the  
car, wide and bright in the dim parking lot lights.

"Yeah, it's all right," he said softly, and climbed into the  
driver's seat. It was a big vehicle, and he did literally have to  
climb into it, despite his height. He reached over and handed her  
the key and she took it.

"The Presidential Suite, I assume?" she quipped.

"Of course," he replied, playing along, glad for her attempt at  
levity. "Jacuzzi. Waterbed. Full dining room and sitting area.  
Room service all night."

He watched her small smile and it warmed something cool in him.

He put the car into reverse and backed it out slowly, struggling  
with the lack of power steering once again. He wound the wheel back  
around and pulled down to the end of the parking lot, stopping in  
front of the door marked 14 with crooked numbers, the paint chipped  
on its front as the headlights glared at it.

He turned the key and the engine grumbled into silence, hissing  
softly beneath the hood.

"I'll get the bags," he said. "You go on in."

She hesitated, but then nodded, sliding out of the truck to her  
feet. He watched her go to the door, open it and go into the room.  
After a few seconds a light switched on and he could see her  
stretching at the foot of a bed, holding her lower back.

It only took him a few moments to hustle their bags into the room,  
close the door behind him and throw the lock and chain. Scully came  
forward, reaching for one of her bags. She'd already gotten out of  
her boots, a brown pair of what he referred to as "shitkickers" that  
they'd picked up along the way. They were so unlike her, like men's  
construction boots, but they were practical for the kind of terrain  
they were in. Her usual array of pumps just wouldn't do in the  
desert.

Her other bag, the one full of her more formal clothes from the  
undercover work, he set down by the door. He only brought it in to  
keep it from getting swiped from the car. He had a suitbag that he  
draped over a chair, also left forgotten, as he went to the bed with  
his other suitcase. He threw it down on the foot of it as he sat  
heavily on the edge, peeling out of his jacket. The t-shirt soon  
followed, tossed with the jacket toward the other chair around the  
chintzy table by the door.

He put his arms up and closed his eyes, stretched like a cat,  
yawning, listening to various things pop as he did so.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Scully at the suitcase stand by the  
dresser, holding a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, her toothbrush  
and toothpaste in her hands. But she was looking at him, a sad  
expression on her face.

"What is it?" he asked gently, rubbed at his bare chest with one  
hand as he braced the other on the mattress beside him.

She glanced away quickly, as though ashamed to have been caught  
looking at him. "Nothing," she said softly. He saw color rise in  
her cheeks. "You just...you look..." She trailed off.

He looked at her, understanding. Seeing his body had triggered  
something in her. Some feeling. Something kin to desire.

And desire was like a phantom pain to her.

He smiled tenderly, taking her into his eyes. "You do, too," he  
murmured, and meant it. He loved the way she looked wearing his  
shirt, tied just at the waist of her jeans, loved the creamy triangle  
of her chest it revealed, the cross shining against her skin.

 

Loved her.

His body ached for hers. Sometimes it was like a physical pain, the  
wanting. Feeling her body so close to his as they slept at night,  
but knowing he could do nothing but hold her, that he had to be  
content with that.

John Fagan had taken the rest of her -- of them -- away from him.

At least for just the time being.

Or so he hoped.

He rose slowly and closed the distance between them, stopping a  
small distance from her. She was staring at the surface of the  
dresser, avoiding his eyes as he approached.

"Hey," he said softly, and reached up to brush an errant strand of  
her hair behind her ear. She didn't flinch at the touch, which he  
took as a good sign. She looked into his eyes, and he didn't see the  
overwhelming fear there he sometimes did.

"Can I kiss you?" he murmured, keeping his fingers against her hair  
at her temple.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, then closed her eyes as she  
rubbed her cheek against his palm. After a beat, she nodded, once.

He took another step toward her and she turned to face him, setting  
the bottles and things down on the dresser. Reaching up with his  
other hand, he cradled her face between them, rubbing at her temples  
as he leaned in, brushed his lips against hers. As their lips  
touched, her eyes opened and he watched her face as he withdrew, his  
eyes questioning.

She met his gaze, nodded again. Her hand came up to brush across  
his cheek, stroking his short-cropped beard. With that, he leaned in  
again and kissed her in earnest, moving his lips against hers,  
feeling her mouth open beneath his. He waited for her tongue to  
enter his mouth first, met it with his own as their faces angled,  
first one way, then the other.

Her hand trailed from his cheek down to his shoulder, across his  
chest, her palm settling against his breastbone, in the soft hair  
there. Her fingers curled in it.

When they came up for air, he moved to her cheek, her ear. "I love  
you," he whispered to her like a secret. He felt her small smile  
against his cheek. He kissed her below her ear and she shied away  
slightly, shivering.

"You okay?" he asked, freezing.

"Yes," she replied, her voice low, the smile still on her face.  
"That beard just tickles."

"I thought you liked it," he said, his hands going down to her  
waist. They closed slowly on the curve of her hips.

"I do," she murmured. "It's just...different. It feels different  
to me sometimes." Her expression darkened suddenly, like storm  
clouds coming in. "A lot of things feel different. Still..."

He leaned his forehead against hers as she averted her eyes again.  
"I know," he said. "I know they do." He squeezed her hips slightly.  
"It's just going to take some more time. That's all."

She nodded, withdrew from him, her hand falling away from his chest  
as she shifted her body out of his grasp. She picked up the items  
from the dresser again and he stepped back reluctantly.

The times when he actually got to touch her like that were so  
seldom.

He hid the disappointment from his face, the feeling just below it.  
The now-familiar anger that bordered on rage. Not at her, of course,  
but at everything that happened. At Fagan. Curran. Padden. At  
this whole damn mess they were in.

If they could settle in somewhere for long enough she might have  
time to let it move through her, come to some sort of place in her  
where she could move forward with it.

But they had to keep moving. For both their sakes.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said, and he nodded, swallowing it  
all down once again. It was beginning to have a sore place in his  
belly, his heart.

"Okay," he said. "I'll take one after you. Watch the news."

She nodded, brushed past him and headed to the small bathroom at the  
back of the tiny room. She closed the door behind her, something  
sinking further in him with the sound of it closing.

Shutting him out once again.

He reached over and flicked the television on, scrolled through the  
channels until he got to MSNBC. Returning to the bed, he fished out  
his pajama bottoms, clean boxers, just washed in a laundromat in  
Tucson a few days before. With that, he tossed the suitcase, open,  
on the floor beside the bed and sat on the bed again, pulling off his  
boots. He fumbled with the straps on the ankle holster he wore and  
set the gun and holster on the night table, the straps hanging down.  
Then he lay down, propping the pillow up behind him.

They'd actually stayed in Tucson a couple of days, feeling anonymous  
in the larger city. It had been that feeling that had urged them  
into California, thinking that perhaps being less of a couple of  
"strangers in a strange land" would ease their minds.

They knew immediately, however, that it was a mistake once they'd  
crossed the border. Much more law enforcement -- border patrol and  
highway patrol -- motel and gas prices higher than their meager  
budget could afford, few Indian reservations where the Federal  
presence was all but nonexistent, places which they'd found had given  
them some small measure of comfort, though they stood out and could  
find few places to stay.

In California, the towns were getting more populated, which made  
them less conspicuous, but also exposed them to more people who might  
recognize them from the photos Mulder had seen at a post office in a  
town in Arizona called Red Rock. He'd been there to rent a post  
office box so the Gunmen could send them money without having to wire  
it, which seemed more risky. He and Scully were thinking they might  
actually stay for a couple of weeks in that place to rest up and slow  
down.

Seeing the photos, he'd torn the sheet off the binder hanging on the  
wall while the lone clerk was in the back, stuffed it in his pocket  
and left in a hurry.

They'd left the town that night, as well. Moving on.

He shifted on the pillow, throwing his arm behind his head to  
cushion it when the flat, bumpy pillow would not, chewing his lip as  
he thought about all this. He stared at the television screen, his  
eyes dry and tired. He scrubbed at them with his other hand.

The news was on, a prime-time news show. So far nothing about  
Curran, though they'd seen other reports about the manhunt for him on  
other nights. They'd yet to see something about themselves, for  
which Mulder was relieved.

"They're keeping it quiet with the press, treating it as an internal  
matter," Skinner had said the last time Mulder had spoken to him,  
from a payphone at a gas station on the road a few days before. "The  
task force that's looking for you is pretty big, but they're not  
making a lot of noise about it. Granger's well again, working on it  
with them now.

"I don't think there's any press about you two because Padden's  
trying to fly in under everyone's radar about this, hoping to get to  
you before anything gets clear about his screw up with the embassy  
bombing. He's trying to get to Curran, too. There *is* a lot of  
pressure in the press about him, as you've probably seen."

"Yeah, we've been watching the news when we can," Mulder had  
replied, standing beneath the lone light at the corner of the lot  
while Scully bought coffee at the convenience store. He remembered  
his frustration peaking.

"I can't believe there's nothing that can be done about these  
charges." He had been holding the flyer with their photos on it at  
the time, read off it. "'Wanted for conspiracy to commit terrorism,  
murder, attempted murder'? What the fuck is this? I can't believe  
this would even stick."

He stared at the pictures of he and Scully, Scully placed on the  
sheet as an identifier for him -- "most likely travelling with..." --  
in his description. They'd used their official FBI photos, the  
photos they'd worn for years on their badges now looking like  
mugshots.

"I've gone to the Attorney General about it," Skinner'd replied  
tensely. "He trusts Padden more than he trusts me, more than he  
trusts anyone. He wants you caught. Both of you. He doesn't know  
what Padden's up to with using Scully to get to Owen Curran. I tried  
to explain that to him and was told I was being 'paranoid and  
irrational'."

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Mulder had replied darkly. Skinner did  
not reply.

Mulder relented, watching Scully walk slowly through the parking  
lot, two cups of coffee in her hands, glancing around nervously.

"So I take it you're saying stay out again," he said dejectedly.

"I think if you come in, especially before Curran's caught, they're  
going to string you up by your nuts, Mulder, and there's nothing  
anyone will be able to do about it. Padden can make anything stick  
right now. He's got his head so far up Ashcroft's ass, for one  
thing, and for another, Ashcroft is new and will listen to just about  
anything at this point.

"And I don't have any proof you weren't involved. Your trip into  
the Grey Mouse that day is being used against you, incriminating you.  
The fingerprints in Mae Curran's apartment. Fagan. All of it. I  
can't protect you, so I want you to stay out of sight."

A pause. "How's Scully holding up?"

"She's been better," Mulder said evasively. Skinner didn't know  
much of what had happened to her -- only that she'd been exposed to  
the drug. Nothing about the attack by Fagan.

"Is she still having after-effects of the drug?"

"Yes," Mulder replied softly. "I think some of that might be  
permanent. But she won't talk about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Skinner had replied, matching Mulder's  
tone.

They'd ended the call with a promise from Mulder to check back in a  
week or so, getting off the line right as his coins ran out to pay  
for the call.

On the bed, he sighed, rubbed at his eyes again. The news ended and  
he turned off the television, letting silence come over the room. The  
water went off in the shower, and a few moments later Scully emerged,  
wrapped in a towel, her hair dried to damp.

She crossed the room silently, went to her suitcase. Her back  
turned toward him, she rooted around in her suitcase for underwear, a  
t-shirt. Then she dropped the towel as she put them on.

He watched her from the bed. Her skin was pale where the sun had  
not touched it. Too pale. He could see the outline of her spine  
stark beneath the skin.

"You've got to eat more, Scully," he said quietly, trying not to  
sound reproachful. He'd been watching her pick at her food for weeks  
now. "You can't afford to lose any more weight."

"I know," she said, slipping the t-shirt over her head and then  
turning to face him. She could not meet his gaze, though. "I'm  
sorry. I just don't feel like eating...I think it's still a holdover  
from the drug...something..."

He nodded, but knew she was avoiding the real reason. Her sadness  
and grief. Over what had happened to her. Over what it appeared  
they were losing or had already lost.

He understood the feelings. Despite the kiss they'd shared before  
she went into the shower, sometimes he felt like she were simply  
drifting away from him along with the rest of his life.

"I'll try to eat more," she said, coming toward the bed now, going  
to the other side and pulling back the pilled, faded coverlet and  
sheets and slipped beneath them. She turned on her side, facing him.  
He was relieved when she touched his forearm, which was draped across  
his belly.

He reached for her hand, pulling his arm down from behind his head,  
lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles gently, rubbed  
them against lips. She made a soft sound in response, though he  
could not tell if she intended it or not.

"I'm going to go shower real fast," he said, curved his arm over her  
head, fingering the damp red strands of her hair. "You go ahead and  
go to sleep. Don't wait for me."

She nodded, her eyelids drooping already. "Mm...okay," she mumbled  
softly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then rose, pulling  
his toiletries bag out of his suitcase and throwing his pajama pants  
and boxers over his shoulder. He padded in his socks toward the  
bathroom.

"Mulder?" she called from the bed, her voice edged with sleep.

He turned back to look at her. "Yeah?"

She didn't move as she spoke. "I love you, too."

He stood there for a few seconds, a faint smile coming to his face.  
Then he headed for the bathroom, left the door open.

 

***********

END OF CHAPTER 1. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 2.

 

*********

FBI HEADQUARTERS  
WASHINGTON, D.C.  
MARCH 19  
9:16 a.m.

 

The tour group wound its way through the corridors of the massive  
building, stopping here and there in front of glass display cases  
with various exhibits on the history of the agency. The tour guide  
was a woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a formal suit, which  
matched her tone and the general mood of the tour.

Among the smattering of young boys and their fathers, the tourist  
couples -- some American, some not -- a young African-American man  
stood hanging near the back, paying only passing attention to the  
exhibit presently being shown to the group, one of J. Edgar Hoover  
himself.

Sans tutu, the man thought wryly, enjoying his private joke, despite  
the tension coursing through him.

They were on the right floor now. It was just a matter of slipping  
away.

The group began to move on down the hallway, the woman referring to  
some of the more innocuous offices housed on the floor, promising  
they'd pass the fingerprinting labs on the floor above.

Drifting back even farther, Paul Granger took a step into an open  
doorway, an office presently unoccupied. He stood at the door as he  
heard the woman's voice receding down the hallway, the softening  
footfalls of the group as they headed toward the elevator. He heard  
it ding as it arrived, then the woman's voice disappeared completely  
behind the soft thud of the closing doors.

Relieved, he stepped out of the office, his hand going to pluck the  
"Tour" badge off the collar of his coat. He stuffed it in his pocket  
as he looked at where he was on the floor, orienting himself.

The office he wanted was down that way, he decided, looking to the  
right. He turned and walked in that direction, his eyes darting at  
the faces around him from behind his small silver spectacles.

He limped slightly as he went down the corridor, his newly healed  
leg still hampering him. It had come along more slowly than his arm  
had, the shoulder responding to the physical therapy much better  
since the injury he'd sustained there had been at a joint. The break  
in the leg was at the shin, held together with a plate, and the  
healing was slower, the pain still nipping at him as his weight rose  
and fell off it.

He got a few strange, vaguely suspicious looks as he went down the  
corridor, though he did his best to appear as though he belonged  
there. The casual clothes he'd worn to the building to blend in with  
the tour group were making him stick out now that he was among  
nothing but FBI agents.

He fingered the CIA badge in his coat pocket, secure that it was  
there should he need it. He just hoped he didn't. No one was  
supposed to know he was there, and he didn't feel like advertising  
it.

He reached the office he was looking for, went in, saw the secretary  
look up with surprise as he entered. She scanned him for a Visitor's  
badge of some kind, and he spoke as her mouth opened to do the same.

"I'm here to see Assistant Director Skinner," he said.

"Do you have an appointment, Mister...?" the woman, a redhead who  
reminded him vaguely of Scully, asked.

"Granger," he replied. "Paul Granger. No, but he'll know who I  
am."

The woman looked at him doubtfully for a few more seconds, taking in  
his attire, his face, then she reached for the phone, pressed a  
button. He just hoped it wasn't the hot button for Security.

"Sir, there's a Mr. Granger to see you," she said, her eyes not  
leaving Granger's face. He could hear a voice in the receiver after  
a beat of silence.

"Yes, sir, I'll send him in." She hung up, looked toward the door.

"You can go on in, Mr. Granger," she said.

Granger thanked her, went to the door and opened it. Skinner was  
behind his desk, a pen in his hand, his jacket off. He put the pen  
down and stood as Granger closed the door, came forward.

Skinner did not reach out his hand.

"What are you doing here, Agent Granger?" he asked by way of  
greeting, his jaw tight. He looked around as though there were  
someone in the office who might see them, then leveled his gaze on  
the younger man again.

Granger looked down, nodded. This was exactly the reaction he'd  
expected.

"No one knows I'm here," he said, met Skinner's eyes. "And no one  
ever will."

"You signed in when you came in, didn't you?" Skinner snapped.

"A Mr. Andreas signed in, with a tour group," Granger replied, and  
Skinner looked at him a few seconds longer. Finally, he seemed to  
relax a little, though not much. He gestured to a chair in front of  
his desk.

"Have a seat," he said, though there was nothing warm in the  
invitation. Skinner was on edge. Very on edge.

"I'm not going to ask you where they are," Granger offered as he  
sat.

Skinner hesitated, then returned behind his desk and sat down  
himself, leaning on his elbows on the desk, as though he were poised  
to leap up at any second.

"That's good, because I don't know where they are," Skinner bit out.  
"And frankly, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't be telling you."

Granger nodded. "I understand that. I wouldn't want you to. I  
don't want them found either. Not yet."

Skinner grunted. "How are you going to manage not to look for them  
when you're the Chief Profiler on the case? You can't play dumb and  
fuck around forever."

"I don't plan to play dumb or fuck around," Granger replied evenly.  
He leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to be looking for them, but  
not for Padden. I want to find them myself. When a few things are  
in place. And the resources of the task force are the best way to do  
that."

Skinner's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "I'd like to believe  
that, Agent Granger," he said, folding his hands in front of him.  
"But frankly I'm having a hard time trusting you in all this."

"I'm sure you're having a hard time knowing who to trust at all at  
this point, yes," Granger replied. "I am, as well. And I know I'm  
not exactly at the top of your list because I've accepted this  
assignment in the first place."

He met Skinner's eyes seriously. "But you are at the top of mine."

Skinner looked to the side and shook his head. "How do I know you  
weren't sent here by Padden to scope me out, see how I'd react, to  
see if I know anything? How can I trust that?"

"I can't make you believe me, except to give you my word," Granger  
said, looking at him hard, trying to meet Skinner glare for glare,  
something he couldn't have done a few months ago.

These days, he felt much older than his 33 years, like he'd aged ten  
years in the past three months, in his body and his mind. The green  
agent who had scuttled after Mulder across Richmond, nearly  
scattering papers from folders in his wake, was all but gone now. He  
was much wiser, and not all the wisdom he'd gained was for the  
better.

Skinner was looking at him, as though trying to decide whether to  
believe him. He didn't seem to come to any decision as he mirrored  
Granger's action by leaning back in his chair.

"Then what is that you want from me?" He asked it quietly, his eyes  
still narrowed.

Granger drew in a deep breath, taking the plunge. This was, after  
all, what he'd risked coming here for in the first place.

"I wanted to tell you a theory about how it is they're going to get  
caught." Granger leveled his eyes again. "To reassure you as  
Assistant Director that your fugitive agents will be found if they  
keep doing what they're doing."

Skinner stared.

"All right," he said carefully. "Tell me your theory."

"If they *didn't* want to get caught, they'd have to stop moving  
around at some point," Granger said. "They think they're doing the  
right thing, but they're not. Not anymore. There have been a few  
reports from places out west of couples vaguely meeting their  
descriptions possibly passing through here and there. Their moving  
around constantly may keep them from Curran, but it's going to make  
it easier for the task force to find them."

Skinner picked up his pen, suddenly fascinated by it. His jaw  
muscles were pulsing. Granger pressed on.

"Agencies in those areas have been fully briefed and are looking for  
them, including the local police. They're looking *hard,*  
circulating pictures to motels, restaurants, gas stations.  
Blanketing the area. The more mobile Mulder and Scully seem, the  
less settled they are, the more they're going to arouse suspicion.  
And the greater the chance of them stopping at a motel where the  
manager has a flyer with their faces on it taped to the desk. Moving  
is exposing them to more people. Staying put somewhere will expose  
them to less."

He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "You might want to  
pass that along if you get the opportunity."

Skinner looked away again, dropped the pen. "That's an interesting  
theory you have about their activities, Agent Granger," he said  
nonchalantly before glancing back. "But seeing as how I have no  
contact with them -- that having contact with them and not revealing  
that information would cost me my career and probably my freedom for  
aiding and abetting a Federal fugitive -- I don't know how I would  
relay that information even if I were so inclined to do so."

Granger nodded. "Of course, sir," he replied.

He rose, reached his hand across the desk now.

"You know I didn't say any of this," he said softly.

Skinner reached out and shook his hand now. "I understand."

Granger nodded again and headed slowly for the door.

"Agent Granger," Skinner said to the younger man's back. Granger  
turned to face Skinner again, his eyes questioning.

"Be careful." Skinner's tone was firm, his voice low. "You're  
standing with one foot on the dock and the other on the boat. And  
you know how that always ends up."

Granger quirked a smile. "Not always, sir. But thank you for the  
warning."

**

9:50 a.m.

In the car now, fighting the late flex-time shift on the Teddy  
Roosevelt Bridge, Granger drummed his fingers on the steering wheel,  
not even reacting as a car swerved around him in the fast lane,  
nearly cutting him off in its attempt to punish him for driving too  
slowly.

His mind just wasn't on the road.

His heart was still thumping a little hard, the fear he'd had over  
the risks he was taking still working in him. He'd managed to hold  
the feeling down until he'd returned to his car and taken off through  
the city.

But then it had hit him, the reaction delayed by his need to seem  
completely in control of the situation in front of Skinner.

What the hell am I doing? he thought, shaking his head.

His hand went to his forehead, wiping at the sheen of sweat that had  
appeared there, despite the chill still in the air in the Washington  
early spring. He moved over into the right-hand lane as the sign  
for the George Washington Parkway appeared, took the exit.

He would be at CIA Headquarters by 10:15 at the latest. Late, but  
then he'd only been back at work for a few days since coming off  
medical leave. They were going easy on him so far, giving him light  
duty, not pressuring him too much, letting him leave early when he  
got too tired.

But then he'd yet to see Padden. And that was going to change this  
morning. That was why he'd chosen this particular morning to risk  
going to see Skinner -- it was the last chance he'd have before he  
had the NSA Director breathing down his neck, no doubt watching his  
every move.

If he wasn't already.

They'd spoken on the phone several times over the course of  
Granger's recuperation from his injuries sustained in the bombing,  
mostly for Padden to ask him questions about his involvement with  
Mulder while they were working together in Richmond.

Padden was slowly, methodically, building his case against Mulder,  
doing everything he could to make every move Mulder had made in  
Richmond seem suspect.

"So what you're saying, Agent Granger," Padden said during one such  
phone call, "is that you actually have no idea where Mulder was  
during that period of time on January twelfth to the thirteenth."

The day Mulder had gone to the mountains, needing "a day off," he'd  
said.

Granger remembered sitting up quickly from where he was reclined on  
his bed, the Flyers playing on the television, as he realized what  
Padden was implying.

"I've told you where he was. He was in D.C. on a personal matter.  
Begging your pardon, sir, but how many times do you want me to tell  
you the same thing?"

That had been the cover story he'd used that day when he did not, in  
fact, know where Mulder had been.

"'A personal matter' could mean a lot of things, Agent Granger,"  
Padden replied. He'd sounded almost smug.

Granger sighed now, remembering the conversation, the car speeding  
along the parkway, a view of the Potomac off to his right, the river  
dark, surrounded by bare trees on the banks.

There had been nothing he could do for Mulder except, it seemed, dig  
him in deeper. When he held anything back, he could tell Padden knew  
it; when he told the truth, Padden skewed it, finding the holes in  
what Granger knew and filling them with his own agenda.

The truth of the matter was that Granger could prove nothing, had  
nothing beyond his own unwavering trust in Mulder and his word. So  
many things he actually didn't know for certain. Whether Mulder had  
actually been at the airport that morning when John Fagan was killed.  
Whether he'd really been in the mountains those two days in January  
as he'd said. What he'd done the day he'd gone into the Grey Mouse  
after Fagan.

And though Granger had explained Mulder's reasoning about the  
bombing, mapped out for Padden how Mulder had figured out that it  
would be the Irish Embassy that was going to attacked and not the  
British as Padden had insisted, Padden saw Mulder's tip-off as a last-  
minute change of conscience of a man who had been in on the planning  
of it all along.

And the fact that Mulder was running didn't help his case very much,  
though Granger knew he was running for Scully's sake and not his own.  
He knew that Mulder would do anything to guarantee his partner's  
safety.

His lover's safety, he thought sadly.

Though Mulder had never spoken of it, or even hinted at it, Granger  
had spent enough time with him, and was interested enough in how he  
ticked, to know this fact to be true.

He had, of course, told no one.

He took the Chain Bridge exit, and the sign for the George Bush  
Center for Intelligence, the fairly new CIA headquarters where  
Padden's multi-agency task force was based, came into view. His hand  
tightening on the steering wheel, he blew out another frustrated  
breath.

What he needed was evidence of where Mulder had been. Beyond what  
had been said. It was the only way to combat Padden and the frame he  
was putting Mulder in.

That's what he'd meant when he'd told Skinner that he didn't want  
Mulder and Scully found until "some things were in place."

A lot of things.

He didn't know what they were yet, these things he would need to  
find.

But find them he would.

 

************

OATMAN, ARIZONA  
ROUTE 66  
11:38 a.m.

 

When Scully was a child and on the road in the back seat of her  
parents' station wagon, she didn't watch the landscape, the trees  
that crowded the highways, but rather she watched the road itself.

She watched the intermittent white lines that bisected the road they  
drove on, speeding past, going in the opposite direction than the one  
she was travelling. In her child's mind, she imagined them as cars  
on a train filled with passengers, all fleeing from where she was  
headed, as though fleeing her unforeseeable future.

Here, the pavement was cracked and the lines faded somewhat from  
sunlight and neglect. She continued to watch them, the lines  
fleeing beside her as Mulder aimed the truck down the highway from  
the fast lane. Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a black baseball  
cap that Mulder had bought her in a truck stop weeks ago hiding her  
still-red hair and blocking her face from the constant sun, she  
leaned against the door. Her gaze was fixed on the road, and she  
felt the same feeling of dread she'd felt as a child wash over her at  
what lay up ahead.

She'd had the same feeling for weeks, her life feeling like an  
endless highway now, the moments of it like the hundreds of towns  
they'd driven through in the past two months, each separate but  
beginning to run together in a colored blur of light, neon lights  
that beckoned to them from the road as they drove past late into the  
many nights.

Mulder was humming tunelessly to a song she didn't know on the  
radio. One he clearly didn't know either. His mind was obviously  
elsewhere, put there by the quiet that had stretched between them for  
50 miles or so now.

She wasn't much on talking these days, and the silence between them,  
which he seemed to have reluctantly grown to accept, pained her.

Many times she would have a thought -- a memory of something they'd  
done together, a story from childhood, a case they'd worked on -- and  
she would open her mouth to speak, and the sound would simply fade  
from her throat, her lips closing to the grim line they'd assumed  
since they'd left Tennessee.

There was so much she both did and did not want to tell him. The  
unspoken things, all of them, building a wall between them, brick by  
brick. She knew he felt it, too. She would feel him looking at her  
as they lay spooned in the bed together, or see him watching her  
sometimes from behind his sunglasses as they drove.

As he was doing now.

The familiar blue square of a roadsign signalling food and gas up  
ahead came into view, riddled with shotgun pellet holes. She  
couldn't see over the next rise, but knew what she would find there.  
A lonely restaurant and a three-pump gas station that made you pay  
before you pumped.

"You hungry?" Mulder asked from beside her, his voice sounding out  
of place after so many miles of faint music and loud engine.

She glanced back at him, trying to ignore the concern that  
constantly tugged at his gaze. "Sure," she replied, forced a smile.

"Okay, we'll stop then," he said, clearly pleased, and shifted in  
the seat as though his body were already anticipating leaving the  
truck.

She returned her eyes to the road, nodding.

She really wasn't hungry. She rarely was anymore, as though that  
part of her connection to her body had gotten somehow crossed, the  
signals that her body needed something rarely making it to her.

Only the ghost of longing reached her sometimes, Mulder's hand on  
her leg, his legs twining with hers as he slept, their bodies pressed  
together.

Sometimes even that was too much for her, and she would rise, sit on  
the side of the bed, or retreat to a table in the motel room, wait  
for him to roll over in his sleep, lose his contact with her  
completely, before she slipped back into the bed, curled on the edge  
like a comma as far away from him as she could get, hiding the tears  
behind her hands.

She felt her eyes burning with the thought, and she pushed it away  
hard, back down with the rest of the things she could not think  
about. Turning her head farther away from where Mulder might see the  
suspicious shine of her eyes, she looked out over the desert,  
squinting against the light reflecting off the sand.

Along the sides of the highway and stretching off into the distance,  
yellow and orange poppies at the feet of the cacti and sagebrush,  
purple stalks of lubine. It had rained a lot in the past month -- a  
lot for the desert -- and the hard husks of the seeds had been forced  
open by the moisture, the flowers' tough heads coming up through the  
sand to wash the tan earth with their colors.

At least that's what one of the motel managers had told her when  
she'd asked about the flowers. She had never thought of them being  
in the desert before, and had said so. The manager had beamed as he  
spoke of them, clearly pleased with the development himself.

She smiled now as she remembered that, smiled at the colors that  
stretched up onto the hillsides in patches. After so many weeks of  
the desolation, the tiny change thawed her a bit.

They reached the top of the rise and the restaurant and gas station  
appeared off to the right. The ubiquitous "Get Your Kicks On Route  
66" sign was proudly displayed out front, the restaurant called the  
Circle J.

Mulder slowed and pulled off into the dirt lot, parked the truck in  
a space at the front of the ramshackle structure. There were only a  
few cars in the lot, a couple of hulks of RVs sitting parallel to the  
road, encrusted with dust.

No one looked up as they entered, the place filled mostly with  
tourists, it appeared, so they didn't stand out very much. Scully  
took her sunglasses off as a woman behind the counter, hippy with a  
kind smile, gestured toward the wooden booths.

"Sit anywhere you like," she said, her smile touching her voice.  
Scully smiled back, followed Mulder to a booth near the back, one  
he'd clearly chosen because it was secluded from the rest of the  
restaurant.

They slid in and Mulder removed his sunglasses, tossed them on the  
table near the salt and pepper shakers in their cage and the half-  
empty bottle of Heinz.

The same woman, "Sue," her nametag read, came up and laid two huge  
menus in front of them both, still smiling kindly. She took their  
drink orders -- coffee for both of them.

"Where you all headed? You look like you've been on the road for  
days."

"Grand Canyon," Mulder replied immediately.

Scully stifled a smirk at that. They'd been on their way to Grand  
Canyon for two months now. It was, to her, the most elusive place on  
earth.

"Oh, you'll love it," Sue said expansively, putting the order pad to  
her chest as she said it for effect. "Take the mules down, though.  
Don't try to walk it."

Scully smiled to her again, picturing she and Mulder on mules with  
cameras dangling from their wrists.

"We'll remember that," she said.

Sue drifted off, and Scully watched her go until Mulder opened up  
the menu in front of her. She did the same out of sheer habit.

"No salads, okay?" Mulder said gently, looking at her earnestly over  
the top of the menu.

She nodded, letting his nagging slide over her, if only because she  
knew he was right that that was what she'd order. It was what she  
usually ordered. They were easier to pick at for some reason, didn't  
turn her stomach like most road fare did.

She would try. She needed to try.

Her own body felt strange to her, her clothes beginning to hang from  
the juts of her shoulders, her too-thin waist. She was in another  
one of Mulder's shirts today, this one blue, a white tank top beneath  
it. Wearing his clothes, which would seem too big to her anyway,  
made her body feel not quite so changed.

It was also, she thought, like being close to him without actually  
having to touch him.

The thought made her flustered, her eyes darting from the window  
where'd she'd been staring back to the menu, as though she were  
afraid he might read the her mind. He was still watching her,  
something pained in his eyes, and for an instant she thought he  
really had.

Sue returned with two glasses of water filled with ice, two steaming  
cups of coffee. Dropping a handful of creamers in a little pile at  
the edge of the table, she reached for her pad.

"What can I get you?"

Mulder ordered a pizza burger, a side of fries. Scully looked down  
at the menu as he did so until Sue turned to her. The chicken  
burrito seemed appealing in a vague sort of way. She decided on  
that.

Sue took the menus away, leaving them with nothing but the coffee  
and creamers to tinker with. Scully fingered a creamer, rolling the  
cool plastic of it between her fingers. She looked down at it, the  
movement obscuring most of her face beneath the rim of the cap she  
still wore.

As always, her hand shook slightly, sending the pale liquid inside  
the container into ripples as she tore at the paper top with her good  
hand.

"You okay?" Mulder murmured.

She nodded, dumping the cream into the thin coffee. "I'm all  
right, Mulder," she replied. "Really." The last she said as she met  
his gaze tiredly.

He shook his head, pursing his lips. "I think we need to stop  
somewhere for a few days again," he said. "I think we could both use  
a couple of days or so of not moving around."

"I'm really okay," she insisted quietly, picked up a spoon and  
stirred, staring into her coffee as the light swirled into the dark.  
"If you need to stop, it's fine, but--"

"I think we *both* need to stop," he replied, his voice just  
slightly firmer now. She looked back up at him as his tone shifted.

She set the spoon down.

"Look," he said, leaning closer. "I know you're trying to tough  
this out and pretend like what we're doing isn't affecting you, but I  
can tell it is. It has been for weeks now. You're so pale and you  
seem so exhausted--"

Instinctively, she pushed her damaged hand beneath the table, anger  
coming over her at his insinuation, looked out the window, her jaw  
set hard.

"And this isn't about your hand, either," Mulder said instantly,  
clearly frustrated. "I'm talking about *you,* Scully." His hand  
reached across the table, gripped her right arm at the wrist. "It's  
like you're getting further and further away from me every day that  
goes by."

"I'm just tired," she bit out, hating the defensiveness of her tone  
as she looked at him sharply. "You are, too. What else do you  
expect me to say?"

He didn't take the bait of her tone, but shook his head instead.

"Scully, you have to talk to me." His voice was a little desperate  
now, softer.

His hand went from her wrist to her hand, his fingers weaving into  
hers. She watched his fingers moving over hers, her hand looking and  
feeling like that of a figure made of wax.

"You have to talk to someone about what happened in Richmond," he  
pressed into the quiet. "All of it. If we were home, there would  
be people you could talk to besides me, but I'm all you've got and I  
want to be here for you."

She hesitated for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as it did  
in the truck. They were in dangerous territory now. An unexplored  
country.

She took in a breath, let it out slowly.

"There are some things I can't talk about with you, Mulder," she  
said, her voice flat, monotone.

"I can take hearing them," he said, gave her hand a squeeze.

"But I can't take telling them," she replied immediately, implored  
him with her eyes. "And I'm not as sure as you are that you could  
take hearing them, either. Try to understand, please...."

"I'm trying to understand," he replied, that same tone of quiet  
desperation in his voice. "I *want* to understand. But you won't  
let me in, Scully. I can feel you shutting me out."

He took a breath, seemed to hesitate for a beat, then spoke anyway.

"And it scares me."

"I'm sorry." It was all she could think of to say after a moment.

"You don't have to be sorry," he replied. "I just don't want you  
any further away than you are already. I feel like I can still get  
to you sometimes...like last night. But..."

The memory of the night before entered her mind, his mouth moving  
over hers, her hands skimming across the flat, hard plane of his  
chest. For a moment she had felt like herself again. Remembering  
it cracked a door in her, something warm coming in.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder," she said, and now she did squeeze  
his hand, met his gaze. "Okay?"

He looked at her doubtfully for a few seconds, then nodded. "Okay."

She pulled her hand away to pick up her coffee, and he did the same.  
Despite what he'd said, she would not put her left hand back on the  
table.

"And we can stop, if you want to," she added. "We both could use  
the rest. And besides, we're getting low on money again. It's time  
for another phone call."

Sue returned, a plate in each hand, which she set down before them.  
Her arrival halted his reply.

"There you go," Sue said, her cheerfulness now plucking Scully's  
already taxed nerves as it contrasted too starkly against the  
conversation they'd been having. "Let me know if you need anything  
else."

"We will, thank you," Mulder replied, forced a wan smile at her. He  
was feeling the same way, she could tell.

When she was gone, Scully stared down at her plate, the smell of the  
burrito drifting up at her, thick and heavy. Her mouth went dry as  
she set down the mug, fingered her fork as if she wasn't sure how to  
use it. The rest of her was still.

"Scully," he said softly after a minute had passed. "Please."

She looked up at him, at the worry in his face. She wanted to make  
that expression, the one that made him look so tired, so sad, go away  
any way she could.

She did her best to eat.

 

***********

 

END OF CHAPTER 2. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 3.

********

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO  
MARCH 20  
6:13 a.m.

 

The sheet of blowing flakes outside the window and the quiet that  
accompanied it were nothing new to the man as he rose in the rickety  
bunk. The wood stove crackled and hissed in the center of the tiny  
cabin as a nearly spent log fell within it, sending out an answer of  
red flakes that the man saw through the cracks of its ancient door.

He stretched, the sleeves of his thermal top sliding up his arms as  
he reveled in the simple pleasure of the wave of heat coming from the  
stove. He could feel the cold wind pushing itself through the flimsy  
windowpane, the flakes gathering on the sill, the heavy snow and its  
wind pressing in around him.

It was something he'd grown used to, this endless view of white.  
There was something lonely in it that appealed to him, the blankness  
of it reminding him of nothing, the landscape like cold amnesia.

He was reminded of nothing by his surroundings, but this did not  
mean he was in the practice of forgetting. In fact, he forgot  
nothing. He never had.

Pushing his legs from beneath the blanket, he reached for his jeans,  
which were thrown across the foot of the bed. He pulled them on over  
the long-john bottoms he wore, thick white cotton covering his legs,  
the denim lined with flannel. Standing, he pulled the pants up to  
his trim waist, fumbled with the belt until it was fastened tight  
around him.

He noticed that he had grown leaner as he tugged on his two shirts,  
the clothes hanging on him despite the layers. It was the travelling  
he'd done, the time spent helping keep this place running, this small  
outpost tucked in the remote crags of the Rockies.

He'd worked hard while he'd been here, proving himself, becoming one  
of these people as best he could while he bided his time.

Waiting. Waiting for word.

He went to the window, looked out over the main area of the compound  
through the snow, the lazy smoke coming from the chimney of the mess  
hall, the largest building on the compound. Breakfast was already  
on, the cooks usually up by five to start the meal for the 46  
inhabitants of this place.

He went to the military locker in the corner of the small room,  
fumbled through the few provisions he kept there for himself, his  
small collection of personal effects. On the top shelf, a tin of  
Twinings Breakfast Tea, which he pried open, stuffing two of the soft  
bags into his jeans pockets.

As he replaced the tin, his eyes fell on his wallet, which sat  
against the far edge of the shelf. There was no need for money where  
he was, so he rarely carried the wallet, rarely looked at it.  
Something made him want to this morning, some pang of feeling which  
he usually kept buried, deep as the ground around him was buried in  
snow.

The snap and crackle of the fire in the stove the only sound around  
him, he drew the wallet out, flipped it open.

The picture was right there. Tucked in its leather slot. The boy  
in the picture was laughing, his aunt, on whose lap he sat, having  
tickled him to prompt the wide-open laugh captured there.

The man smiled despite himself as he looked at the boy's face, at  
the conspiratorial look the woman gave the camera.

Then, beneath the heat of a dull rage, the smile melted away.

He replaced the photo in its slot, fingered the one behind it by the  
corner, pulled it out halfway.

A woman. The most beautiful smile he'd ever seen in his life. Red  
hair ruffled by the wind, her blue eyes looking at something just to  
the side of the camera. Her small body was leaning against the  
doorway of a stone house, her dress a deep green, accentuating the  
pale of her arms.

Unlike the boy's grin, this smile was prompted by nothing but him.

He was the person she'd been looking at when the picture was snapped  
the morning of their wedding all those years ago, the layer of green  
ivy curling up the side of the house and arching up around her over  
the doorway to his parents' house.

He felt his eyes burning, which surprised him. He thought he'd gone  
beyond feeling anymore. The picture grew distorted before he  
blinked, distorted just enough to alter the face slightly in his  
vision and in his mind's eye.

Another woman. Beautiful. Red hair and blue eyes. Her small body  
leaned across a table at a pub in Richmond, looking shyly into her  
glass of beer as he studied her from across the crowded bar. She had  
always been aware when he was looking at her, it seemed, her guard  
always up against him.

Now he knew why.

The rage in him swelled again. He rubbed hard at his eyes just in  
case any trace of sentiment still remained.

Tucking the picture back down and away, he put the wallet in the  
locker, closed the metal door with a hollow sound.

The woman in the bar's was the face he carried with him now. Not  
his wife's, though Elisa's face had driven him for many years in the  
things he had done.

Now he had a new one to take her place. An FBI agent named Dana  
Scully. The woman his sister, Mae, had betrayed him for, helping  
Scully escape and stealing his son away.

And leaving his best friend, John Fagan, missing in the process.  
He'd waited for Fagan at the rendezvous point for over a day, a motel  
on the outskirts of a town in western Virginia where they'd decided  
to meet if they got separated. Fagan had never shown. And Fagan had  
*always* shown.

Curran could only assume he was dead.

He hoped to God it was Dana Scully who was responsible for that and  
not Mae. But knowing how careful John had been, how much he would  
have planned his approach on Scully, a part of him wondered if it was  
Mae who had caught him by surprise, the attack he wouldn't have been  
expecting.

Just thinking about it made him tremble with rage.

Revenge had always driven him, but it had never been as urgent as it  
was now. Elisa had died, after all. Murdered by people he'd spent  
the last five years planning on punishing.

His boy, Sean, was still alive out there somewhere, just beyond his  
sight, his reach.

And without Sean, he felt completely lost.

Without Fagan, the feeling was made even worse.

And without punishing the people responsible for Sean and Fagan's  
loss, he felt even more incomplete, like half the person he'd been  
before.

Half a man.

And he wanted to be whole again.

Turning, Owen Curran went to the stove, tossing in a few more small  
logs so that the cabin would still be warm when he reentered after  
his meal. Then, shouldering into his heavy army parka, he unlatched  
the door and entered the world of blinding white.

 

**********

WHISTLE STOP INN  
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA  
8:34 a.m.

 

The bell on the door to the manager's office jangled loudly as  
Mulder pushed his way through it with his shoulders, his arms full  
with groceries he'd just purchased from the small market across the  
main road. He had a smaller bag filled with danishes in his teeth, a  
cup of coffee in each hand, which he set down on the counter to free  
them. He put the bag of danishes in between them carefully, so as  
not to topple the bags in his arms.

As he placed the groceries on the floor in front of the desk, the  
manager -- an older man with a wisp of hair combed over his bald  
spot, thick glasses, and a toothy, amiable smile -- came out from the  
back office where'd he'd been stretched out in a green recliner,  
watching a small black and white television.

"Help you with something, Mr. Garrett?" he asked Mulder, putting  
his hands on the counter, framing the cups of coffee in his arms.

Mulder was fingering a rack of pamphlets on the counter, all  
advertising attractions in the Williams/Flagstaff area. He smiled  
faintly to the manager -- Barry, John Barry, Mulder remembered now --  
as he did so.

"I'm just looking for some things to do around here," Mulder  
replied. "Some things to see."

"Oh, there's plenty to see around here," Barry said  
enthusiastically. "The biggest thing we've got here in Williams is  
the train that goes all the way up to The Canyon. Right to the South  
Rim. But if you want to go out a little further around Flagstaff,  
there's some other things to see."

That sounded a little too touristy for Mulder's liking, a little too  
public, though he would have loved to have finally seen Grand Canyon  
after driving around it for so many weeks. He thought they needed a  
diversion, something to give he and Scully a sense of normalcy for  
even a few hours, but the thought of piling into the old-fashioned  
steam engine he saw on the front of the pamphlet with a dozen  
families from Kansas to go see one of the most heavily visited  
national parks in the country wasn't his idea of a diversion.

Being around so many people would probably cause them both more  
stress -- and expose them to more risk of being recognized -- than it  
could ever do them any good.

"Are there any Indian ruins around here?" Mulder asked, his eyes  
still on the pamphlets. He remembered Scully always seemed to notice  
when there were ruins nearby as they'd driven around, though they'd  
had yet to stop at any. He thought she might like that.

"Lemme see..." Barry said, thinking for a beat. "Well, there's  
Wupatki outside Flagstaff, on the way to the Navajo Reservation,  
going up Marble Canyon way. It's not much to see, though I might be  
a little prejudiced about that myself. I don't get into them ruins  
too much. Just a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere is what I  
say."

Despite what Barry has said, Mulder was intrigued. "Is it on the  
map?"

"Yeah, it's on there all right. Hardly nobody goes there, though.  
It's 20 or so miles off the main road, and besides, there's snow  
called for up there today. Just saw it on the news a bit ago."  
Barry glanced out into the parking lot. "Though I reckon in that  
truck of yours that wouldn't be a problem."

Mulder glanced up him, unnerved by the amount of interest Barry had  
shown in him on some level -- remembering his name from the night  
before, noticing what they were driving. He forced the paranoia  
down, knowing that Barry was probably just bored enough here in the  
off-season to notice a lot about the people who did stop by.

He gave Barry a polite smile. "No, it won't be a problem," he  
replied, and began gathering up his things again, fitting the  
danishes under his arm this time. Barry hurried around the desk and  
opened the door for Mulder, the bell clapping against the glass-paned  
door again.

"Thank you, Mr. Barry," Mulder said as he went out the door with his  
load.

"Not a problem, Mr. Garrett," Barry replied. "Give my best to your  
missus."

That got a wry smile out of Mulder as he turned and made his way  
down the front of the motel, a rambling one-story affair with blue  
shutters on the mostly blinded windows. He could smell bacon cooking  
as he passed by one door, a heavy smell that he had grown to  
associate with their time on the road. He could hear a television on  
in another as he continued toward the end, to the small efficiency  
where he and Scully had decided to spend the next few days to rest  
and recuperate as much as they could.

Reaching the last door, he listened for any sound inside, heard  
nothing but silence. He set the bags down on the sill, balancing them  
with his hip as he dug in his pocket for the key. He pushed the door  
open quietly, gathered the bags up and slipped into the room, his  
eyes immediately going to the bed.

Scully lay facing away from him, looking small beneath the covers,  
her lengthening, more curly hair sprayed out behind her on the  
pillow, her arms out in front of her across the other side of the  
bed. She gripped his pillow in one fist, the cotton case wrinkled  
around her fingers.

Moving carefully, he went to the kitchenette at the back of the  
room, set the coffee cups down, the bag of danishes. Then he slid  
the grocery bags onto the counter and began unpacking the contents,  
his eyes darting to the bed every now and again, watching her face  
for any sign that he was disturbing her. He wanted her to sleep for  
as long as she could.

He turned away and put the perishables in the tiny refrigerator,  
having to get creative with the space. When he stood again, he  
glanced back at Scully and saw that her eyes were open now, watching  
him.

"Good morning," he murmured, smiling gently.

Much to his relief, she returned the smile -- an easy smile -- and  
rolled onto her back, the covers slipping to her hips, her t-shirt  
bunched around her ribs. She stretched languidly, her arms going  
over her head as she yawned.

"I've got some coffee," he continued, trying not to stare as her t-  
shirt slid up, exposing all the way up to the bottom curve of one  
breast, the nipple peaking out for a second until she put her arms  
down again.

"Coffee sounds good," she said, her eyes still closed, and her voice  
was as easy as her smile had been.

He found his pervasive tension releasing some. It was going to be  
one of her good days, he realized, when she was able to relax, her  
mind not as preoccupied as it often was. He was glad, because his  
was the same way.

There was something to be said for knowing you could stay in bed all  
day if you wanted to, he thought, his lips curling into a smile as  
she looked at him again, her eyes bright in the shuttered light  
coming through the half-opened blinds.

Then she did something she rarely did anymore, and certainly not  
when she wasn't in tears, awake from the grip of nightmare that had  
shaken her in the dark.

She reached for him, then smoothed her hand across the mattress  
beside her, a clear invitation.

He didn't have to be asked twice.

Pushing off his leather jacket, he came around the counter that  
divided the two rooms, laying the jacket across the chair at the  
table in the eat-in area of the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the  
bed, his back to her as he pulled his boots off. He felt her hand on  
his back already, her nails grazing him through his long-sleeved t-  
shirt.

He slid beneath the covers in his jeans, easing an arm beneath her  
neck as she rose and pillowed her head on his shoulder, her arm going  
around his chest, her bare leg bending over his thigh. He craned his  
neck and kissed her forehead, curled his arm up so that he could  
tunnel his fingers through her hair.

"You feel good today, don't you?" he asked, pleased, rubbing his  
lips against her hairline slowly.

He felt her smile against his shoulder, a small one, but a smile  
nonetheless.

"Yeah, I do," she replied. "I think I had a good dream."

"Oh yeah? What about?"

She shook her head slightly. "I don't remember," she said, leaning  
in a bit so that her lips were against his throat. "I just have this  
feeling. A good feeling."

He smiled at the ease in her voice, at the feeling of her warm  
breath against his skin. "I'm glad," he murmured.

They lay in a companionable silence for a long moment, Scully  
tracing little patterns with her fingers on his chest. He closed  
his eyes, feeling contented, everything pushing away from him except  
her.

"You want me to cook something?" she said into the quiet.

He shook his head. "No, I don't want you to move," he said softly,  
and he meant it so much that he felt his eyes sting for a second.

She nuzzled into him, unaware of the emotions his confession had  
stirred in him.

"Okay," she replied.

Another quiet few moments. The television in the room next door  
came on, a muffled voice reaching him. The heavy sounds of someone  
settling against the headboard just on the other side of the flimsy  
wall.

He pulled Scully closer to him, willing the sounds away. It was so  
hard to feel like he was ever truly alone with her, people always  
around them. He longed for the privacy of his apartment, or hers --  
any place where it could just be the two of them, no strangers just  
outside the door, no sounds of cars, of televisions, of voices  
carrying over from another room or table.

It was something he'd taken so much for granted before.

If they ever made it out of this -- *when* they did, he corrected  
himself sternly -- he would never take that for granted again. He  
would never take any part of her for granted, now that so much of her  
had been taken away from him.

Reluctantly, feeling a funk coming over him and not wanting it to  
continue, he broke the tenuous spell around them. "I had an idea."

"What's that?"

"There are some Indian ruins not too far from here, apparently. The  
other side of Flagstaff. I thought we could go see them today."

She leaned up, looking at him now, her brow creased. "Mulder, don't  
you think that would be a little risky?"

He shook his head. "I think we're okay on this one. They're pretty  
remote, from what the manager said. I don't think they'll be a big  
tourist spot."

She chewed her lip, her expression clearly worried.

"Plus," he added quickly, not liking the change in her quicksilver  
mood. "It's supposed to snow today, so nobody will be out there. I  
thought we could just get out, pretend to be seeing something. It'll  
be better than being cooped up here all day watching television."

She looked at him, unconvinced still, he could tell.

"I know you've wanted to see a few of them," he said gently,  
stroking her hair back from her face. "We've passed a hundred or  
more. Stopping at one won't do any harm. It's not like we're going  
to the Canyon or something. We could use a day of doing something  
normal."

He could see her expression softening as he brushed at her hair, his  
fingers tracing the curve of her ear as he did so. He leaned his  
head up and touched her lips with his for good measure, lingering  
there, reassuring her.

When he pulled his face away, her eyes were closed. When she opened  
them, she gave him a tiny smile, nodded. "Okay. I'll get ready  
then."

"Good," he said softly, and leaned in to kiss her once more as she  
moved to slip out of the bed and away from him once again.

 

**********

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO  
12:38 p.m.

 

It was intricate work.

A bundle of multicolored wires, their connectors all having to find  
their correct places before anything would work. Curran took the  
wire cutters in his hand, chose a wire out of the mass and separated  
it, carefully stripping away the vinyl covering, exposing the copper  
wire underneath. Then, twisting its end to a connector, he screwed  
the wire down onto the small panel, gently tightening the screw with  
a tiny screwdriver made just for this kind of close-quartered work.

The midday light shone through the window, brighter with the snow,  
which was still falling, though not as hard as before. The kerosene  
heater in his small workroom gave the place a thick, oily smell, but  
he'd grown used to it after so many weeks bent over the workbench,  
day in and day out. He wore a pair of glasses on the end of his nose  
which magnified the board he was working by several powers, making  
finding the correct placement easier.

Pushing the glasses up, he sniffed, rubbed his nose, checked the  
work. Beside him, cigarette smoke rose lazily into the cold air, a  
stream of grey gathering in the cup of the bright overhead desk lamp.  
He took a drag, blew out a stream of smoke easily, replaced the  
cigarette in the ashtray with care.

Four more wires to go and then he would be finished. The bomb was  
thin enough to be slipped into a padded mailer, the final wire taped  
on the flap and designed to break away when the article was opened.

It was crude work for him, actually -- a thing he'd done since he  
was a boy -- but it proved useful to the people around him, most of  
whom didn't seem to have the technical skill necessary for such a  
task. Most of the people on the small compound busied themselves  
with the running of the ranch itself, tending to the cattle and sheep  
that roamed in the paddocks fenced in around the barns to the north  
side of the encampment. Others worked in the lumber mills in the  
town below, only to return in the evenings to be with their families,  
or to bunk up in the common bunkhouse like a bunch of ragged soldiers  
just in from a war.

None of them wanted to be here.

But this was the place where Larry Kingston, the head of the Sons of  
Liberty Militia, sent the people the law was most interested in, a  
sort of gulag high up in the mountains where people who had a need to  
be hidden stayed for their own protection.

Curran was himself such a person, secreted away by Kingston in this  
place while the militia's various contacts searched out Mae and Sean  
and Dana Scully for him, the repayment of a favor that Curran had  
done Kingston years ago. Kingston had needed explosives, plastics,  
and Curran just happened to have a contact who could get him those.  
They'd struck an uneasy truce over that, Curran knowing that if he  
were going to survive in this country in the line of work he was in,  
he'd better do his best to ingratiate himself to the like-minded  
locals.

And American militias were the closest thing to the IRA and his  
group The Path that he was going to find in this Godforsaken country.

 

That instinct to ingratiate was paying off now, he thought, trimming  
the blue coating off another wire, his teeth catching his lip between  
them in concentration as he tried not to fray the wire itself. He'd  
been hidden for over six weeks now, since his face had really hit the  
news over the failed Embassy bombing in Washington, the manhunt for  
him intensifying as pressure to solve the act of terrorism pressed  
down on the U.S. government agencies like a giant hand.

But no one would find him here. At least no one he didn't want to.

Once he'd stripped the tube off the wire, he reached up, rubbed the  
scar along the side of his mouth absently, picking up another  
connector with a pair of fine, long tweezers, settling it on the cork  
of the work area in front of him. He began twisting the wire  
carefully once again.

Behind him, a knock at the door, the door coming open immediately,  
an elderly woman peeking her head in. It was Sarah James, the  
defacto "mother" of the worn bunch of refugees of the camp. She made  
it her business to be into everyone else's.

"Mr. Curran?" she said, her hands on her hips.

"Aye, Sarah," he said, not looking up. "What is it?"

"There are two men here to see you in the mess hall, just up the  
side of the mountain. Must be important. They've got chains on  
their tires as thick as my arms to get up here in weather like  
this."

He laid the tools down, stubbed out the cigarette calmly. Sarah  
stayed at the door, watching him, as he pulled the glasses off his  
face and set them down beside the tools.

"You shouldn't be smokin' in here with all these explosives and such  
laying around, and certainly not with that kerosene heater so close  
to you. You're going to go up like a roman candle if you keep that  
up." Her voice was mild, but the rebuke was not lost on him.

He stood and turned, showed her his teeth in a stiff grin. "I'm  
very careful, Sarah," he said. "Always have been."

She chuffed at that. "Bullshit," she said. To Curran's Irish ears  
it sounded like "Bowl sheet."

"Begging your pardon?" he asked, not taking the bait but curious as  
to what had prompted her laughter.

She appraised him with her big wet eyes. They reminded him of those  
of the cows that wandered around the snowy troughs, looking for bits  
of grain. "If you're so goddamn careful," she said, looking him up  
and down. "what the hell are you doing up here?"

He smiled mildly. "Everyone has a run of bad luck, Sarah. You of  
all people should know that. Yours must be stretching into the  
decades at this point, eh?"

She harrumphed at that, turned and went out of the room, leaving the  
door open as she disappeared down the hallway and out the front door  
to the building.

He laughed quietly, satisfied, as he pulled on his parka. The  
people here barely tolerated his presence, him being one of the nasty  
foreigners the militia spent so much of its propaganda railing  
against. But he still could hold his own against them. He'd managed  
to hammer out a little bit of begrudging respect from most of them.

Even Sarah, though she'd rather die than admit it.

And at least their contained animosity -- and Kingston's good favor -  
\- had bought him a private cabin.

He hit the ground outside at a trot, his hands jammed in his  
pockets, the snow up over the ankles of his boots now. People were  
milling out of the mess hall across the compound, lunch still being  
served. If he was lucky, he'd still get a tray of something hot.

He recognized the newcomers immediately, two men seated near the end  
of one of the long tables, heavy white cups of coffee in their hands.  
There was rarely such a thing as a stranger here, all the faces  
familiar. They were looking around expectantly, clearly waiting for  
him.

Going to the line, he picked up a tray, pure World War II surplus  
with grooved areas dividing the battered surface, and had it loaded  
down with what the cooks were offering today. Pressed turkey on  
bread with a floury gravy. Green beans. He stopped at the end of  
the line and drew a cup of coffee from the large container, gathered  
the dull silverware, then headed toward the two men.

They eyed him as he approached, both of them peering at him with  
narrow, dark eyes. One was taller than other, more strongly built,  
bulky in his blue parka, which he'd yet to remove, as though he  
didn't intend on staying long.

The other man, smaller than Curran with jet black hair he'd combed  
straight back, had a vaguely blank and stupid look on his face, as  
though nature hadn't quite finished with him before it had sent him  
into the world. He was sliding his coffee cup back and forth between  
his hands on the table, running it along the slick surface as though  
enjoying a private game.

"Mr. Curran?" the larger man asked as Curran sat at the head of the  
table between them, setting his tray down with care.

"Aye, I'm Curran," he said, taking a sip from his coffee  
nonchalantly.

"My name is Tom Lantham. This is Rudy Gray. Larry Kingston sent us  
up here to speak with you."

Curran nodded, digging into his meal. "You've got word of some sort  
then?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, as though they  
were discussing the weather.

Lantham nodded, eyeing Curran as he ate. "We have a couple of  
possible sightings of the people you're looking for, yes. We've been  
sent out here to investigate the leads."

"You bounty hunters then?" Curran asked, glancing at the two of  
them. Gray continued pushing the cup of coffee back and forth. It  
was starting to grate on Curran's nerves.

"In a manner of speaking," Lantham replied stiffly. "We both worked  
as bail bondsmen. Developed a certain talent for finding people.  
For a price, of course."

"More money to be had this way, I would imagine," Curran said,  
chewing another mouthful of the mediocre meal.

"You could say that." Lantham's voice was guarded. He seemed eager  
to get off the topic. "Anyway, we'll be going down to Nogales in  
Southern Arizona right away, see what we can find out. It's not too  
far from Tucson, right on the Mexican border."

Curran nodded. "I'll tell you what it is I want you to do," he  
said, put his fork down. "You find any of them that I'm looking for,  
and you give Kingston a call. He'll get in touch with me and I'll  
come down and meet you before you move in."

Lantham glared. "I'd been told we'd be able to handle this our own  
way," he said, his voice clipped. "Mr. Gray and I have a method for  
taking care of situations like this; we're perfectly capable of  
bringing the people to you up here. From what I understand, it  
would be better if you stayed up here, anyway."

Curran was shaking his head. "We do this my way," he said simply.  
"I have my reasons for making the request."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Curran," Lantham said softly, leaning in.  
"But you're not the one paying for this. Kingston is. I don't take  
orders from anyone but him."

Curran looked up, met the challenge in Lantham's eyes. The tension  
between them had at least gotten Gray to stop with the coffee cup.  
Curran could see Gray watching them from the corner of his eye,  
still now, his beady, oily looking eyes first on one man, then the  
other. Gray'd had yet to say a word.

"This is my show," Curran said, his voice flattening as anger piqued  
in him. "Kingston's paying you as part of a favor he owes ME. You  
don't do as I ask and you don't get paid a cent. I'll see to that."

He and Lantham stared at each other, neither willing to budge. Gray  
continued to watch them.

Finally, Lantham leaned back on the bench seat a little, put his  
hands up in a gesture of acquiescence.

"All right, Mr. Curran," he said. "We find any of them and we'll  
get word to you. Follow them until you get there before we move in."

 

Curran picked up his coffee cup, took a sip. "Thank you, Mr.  
Lantham," he said, his voice still a touch angry at being so openly  
challenged. It was not something he was accustomed to. "I knew  
you'd understand once it was made clear to you."

Lantham made a small sound in his throat at that, a grunt of  
displeasure. "Well," he said, standing. Gray stood with him, like a  
dog getting ready to follow its master. "We'll be in touch."

Curran gestured with his coffee cup, dismissing them both  
effectively. "Safe travels to you," he said, then returned to his  
meal as though they were already gone.

He could have sworn he heard Lantham mumble something under his  
breath as he departed with Gray in tow. Curran thought he heard the  
word "fuck" in it and that made him smile with satisfaction.

Sighing, contented now that there was progress of some sort, he took  
a sip of the coffee -- a thick, bitter liquid -- and wished for his  
tea.

 

************

 

END OF CHAPTER 3. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 4.

 

*************

JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT  
NEW YORK, NEW YORK  
1:30 p.m.

 

The old man blended in with the gathered crowd, funneled from the  
baggage claim belts to the long lines of the U.S. Customs area,  
pushing a cart in front of him easily. On it sat three articles --  
two ancient suitcases, carefully packed so as not to be the slightest  
bit overburdened, and a long slender case made of hard plastic,  
latched tightly closed and clamped with a small lock.

The old man walked slowly, but not because of his age. He was  
simply not in the habit of hurrying.

All of the lines leading to the Customs stations were the same  
length, two or three large flights just in from Europe all descending  
on the area at once. Around him, people from every ethnicity, every  
age group, every walk of life. Families that were clearly refugees,  
carrying everything they owned in crates crudely tied with rope. The  
businessmen already on their cell phones as they waited, smart-  
looking matching luggage sets rolling behind them on silent plastic  
wheels. The American families in their separate line looking put-  
upon at this, their last stop before they re-entered their home,  
vacations finally coming to an end.

The old man was none of these. He was simply a traveler, dressed in  
comfortable clothes that hugged the contours of his still-vibrant  
body. He wore a touring cap on his head to hide his balding pate,  
his wide white moustache neatly trimmed over his full lips. His eyes  
were bright and held a certain keen intelligence to them, the irises  
the color of turquoise flecked with amber. He did not wear glasses,  
his eyesight still the same as it was when he was a boy.

A child in front of him, a young Indian boy wearing a long white  
cotton shirt, held on to his father's leg and looked back at the old  
man, who appraised the boy for a few seconds before offering a  
kindly, closed mouth smile. The boy smiled back shyly, then turned  
and looked away.

As the line moved slowly forward, he pushed the cart in front of  
him, finally reaching the blue line on the floor that signaled him as  
the next person to enter the countered area. His passport stuck out  
of the pocket of his shirt, its crisp green cover having already been  
scanned at Immigration.

He found himself whistling a soft tune as he waited.

Finally, the woman behind the counter, an African-American woman in  
an ill-fitted uniform and short-cropped hair, dismissed the person in  
front of him, signalled for the old man to come forward with his  
things. As he approached the counter, he removed his hat, smiled to  
the woman.

He was in the "Nothing to Declare" line, but he did not expect to be  
waved through. He was right.

"Sir, could I see your passport, please?" the woman asked, halting  
him. He continued to smile, tucked his touring cap under his arm as  
he withdrew the passport, handed it to her.

"Mister...Shea," the woman said, reading his name off the inside  
flap.

"Aye," he replied. "That's me. Jimmy Shea."

"You say you have nothing to declare?" She said it incredulously.

"I've got a bottle of whiskey in that bag right there, but just the  
one, just like I put on the little card they gave me on the plane."  
He gestured to his top suitcase.

The woman glanced down at his things now, taking in the three bags.  
As he expected, her eyes stopped on the long case, her eyes flicking  
back to his. He smiled again.

"Could you open that one for me, Mr. Shea?" she asked, and her  
voice had hardened. She looked over at a security guard standing  
nearby, gestured him forward. The guard put his hand on his service  
weapon and came over, standing beside her and eyeing Shea warily.

Shea reached down, picked up the case and set it on the counter in  
front of them. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the tiny key to  
the lock on its side, unlatched it. Then, undoing the catches on the  
case's side, he flipped it open so that the two Customs officials  
could see the contents.

The woman looked at it, then back up into Shea's face, her lip  
curling with a put-upon expression. Beside her, the guard removed  
his hand from his gun, relaxing.

Inside the case, a well kept fishing rod and reel, an assortment of  
flies and tackle. The reel gleamed silver in the fluorescent light.

"Are you always in the habit of carrying your fishing equipment in a  
rifle case, Mr. Shea?" the woman asked, perturbed.

"Aye, that I am," he replied, the same amiable smile on his face.  
"It's the only thing that it'll all fit in, and it's got the right  
amount of padding. I wouldn't want anything happening to my rod on  
the way over, you know."

The woman made a sound in her throat, a low "humph." The guard  
drifted away.

"I assume this is a pleasure trip for you then, Mr. Shea?" she  
asked flatly.

"Oh yes," he replied immediately, with enthusiasm. "I plan on doing  
a good bit of fishing. But there's some business I'm here to attend  
to, as well."

This last bit he added quietly, almost as an afterthought.

"Well, enjoy your visit, sir," she said, her voice bored and rote  
now as she waved him through. "I hope it's a productive one."

He reached down, closed up the case and replaced it on the cart.  
"Oh, I'm sure it will be," he said, then drifted off through the rest  
of the Customs station and out into the airport beyond.

 

*********

 

WUPATKI NATIONAL MONUMENT  
OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA  
3:34 p.m.

 

The heavy snow clouds hung over Doney Mountain, a grey-white blanket  
moving across the peak led by small wisps and a cold wind that blew  
down across Deadman Wash and over the flat top of Woodhouse Mesa to  
the southeast. Between the mesa and the mountain, Scully picked her  
way along the pueblo ruin of Wupatki, bleak light bleeding through  
the crumbled remains of windows and doorways.

Her dark coat, trailing down around her ankles, whipped around her  
in the frozen wind, her black-gloved hands buried in her pockets for  
extra warmth. She walked the perimeter of the largest ruin in the  
area, which stood on a high rise like a sentinal above the smaller  
mounds of carefully carved bricks, the remnants of a hundred or more  
rooms that had once housed a town of simple Sinaguan farmers almost  
900 years ago.

Going through a low doorway, she stood in the middle of one of the  
rooms, stared at the packed earth floor, the clouds moving high in  
the ceilingless expanse above her, wind sighing through the windows  
and the breaks in the walls. The sight of all this, the loneliness  
of it, made her slightly sad, more introspective than she had been  
that morning, and she longed for the easy feelings she'd had when she  
had first awoken.

After all, this had been Mulder's idea of a way to distract them  
both from the troubles that followed them constantly along the  
endless ribbon of highway they traveled on.

And she didn't want to become melancholy and disappoint him.

Disappoint him again.

The thought pained her, and she fled the room, returning to the  
straight force of the wind as she left the interior of the ruin for  
the wide lip of rock that jutted from one side. From here, she could  
look out over the smaller ruins stair-stepping down toward the desert  
plain, a desolate landscape shrouded in fog as the storm approached.

Below her, a handful of tourists milled about, bundled up in their  
coats, children darting in and out of the rooms and down the long  
trail that led to the remnants of what the pamphlets called a "ball  
court," a round structure with high walls and a single entrance  
facing off to the south.

Mulder, ever the sports fan, had immediately gone down toward it to  
have a look. She'd chosen to remain on the upper levels, glad to  
have some time to herself, if even for a few moments.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be with him. She loved Mulder  
more than anything. There was no question about that. But they had  
been together 24 hours a day for over two months, and she found she  
was craving the solitude she'd often relished in her apartment back  
in Washington. More than anything, she needed to be alone. With  
Mulder around all the time, she found herself expending more energy  
hiding her feelings than actually feeling them.

And she couldn't afford to become to any more numb than she'd become  
already.

The first flakes of snow began to fall as she sat carefully on the  
rocky outcropping, the intricate brickwork of the pueblo behind her  
and off to one side. The wind ruffled her hair, sending streams of  
red gently across her face and causing her eyes to tear from the  
cold. The flakes were large, heavy. Her legs dangled over the side  
of the ledge, and she hunkered into her coat, her eyes down in her  
lap.

She drew in a deep breath, and let herself think of him. Of Fagan  
and what had happened in Mae's apartment in Richmond all those weeks  
ago.

Though the images came easily to her, she couldn't access the  
feelings that went along with them. It was as though what she saw in  
her mind were happening to someone else.

She closed her eyes, waiting to feel...something. Anything.

Nothing would come.

As an investigator, she had seen this kind of reaction a dozen times  
before from victims of violent crime. It was all very studied to  
her.

She knew that until she could feel what she needed to feel, until  
she allowed herself to do that, she could not begin to come back from  
the bleak land where she now dwelled, a self-imposed, if not  
intentional, state of exile.

An image suddenly entered her mind, replacing those of Fagan in an  
instant. She and Mulder in her apartment, his hands bracketing her  
head beneath the pillow as he moved, his lips moving over hers,  
across her jaw, beneath her ear--

She choked on the sob, her gloved hand going to her mouth as the  
strangled sound was trapped in her throat. Her eyes welled.

The snow began to fall more heavily.

She closed her eyes, willing the sudden anguish away.

After a long moment, her eyes opened.

The mask was back in place.

She turned and looked down over the expanse of the ruins, saw Mulder  
coming up the path below her, returning from the court at the base of  
the hill. He was looking up at her, his hands in the pockets of his  
jeans, his strides long but unhurried. She could see his gentle  
smile even from this distance.

She tried to smile back, then looked away, across the plain toward  
the wide shape of the mesa. Snowflakes dotted her dark coat, light  
on black. She found herself mesmorized by them, staring at them as  
they gathered there.

She almost did not hear the footsteps as he came up behind her.

"Mind if I join you?" Mulder asked softly, his voice nearly lost in  
a gust of wind.

She looked up him, gave him a small smile. "Of course not," she  
replied, and returned her gaze to her lap. She shivered, her  
shoulders trembling for an instant. Her teeth had begun to chatter.

He sat down behind her, scooted forward until his thighs framed  
hers, his legs dangling over the edge with hers. Sliding his arms  
under hers, he tugged her gently until her back was against his ches,  
and she closed her hands around his wrists.

He put his chin on her shoulder, turned to kiss her just in front of  
her ear, lingering there. She pressed her cheek into his lips,  
closed her eyes at the feeling of safety she had, embraced by his  
warm body, the snow falling on around them, steady, swirling now and  
again in the hollow-sounding wind.

He returned his chin to her shoulder, breathed out a puff of white  
into the air. He sounded content. Tired and content. She squeezed  
his hands tighter, running her thumb across the exposed skin on his  
wrist.

For a long moment they both looked out over the wide expanse in  
front of them, a desolate place they faced, the ruins behind them.

The tourists were beginning to withdraw to their cars, frightened  
off by the weather as the storm moved in. There were footsteps  
around the pueblo behind them as people picked their way through the  
bricks toward the parking lot.

Scully shut them out. Neither she nor Mulder moved.

Then, close by, the sound of a camera shutter firing off, several  
quick turns of a motor drive.

Now they both did turn quickly, saw a man standing there, camera  
equipment slung over his shoulders and around his neck. He was tall,  
weathered looking, wearing a heavy parka, jeans, hiking boots. He  
held a 35 millimeter camera in his hand and was smiling kindly at  
them.

"Sorry to intrude on you both like that," the man said. "You're a  
lovely couple, and you two just made such a nice shot with the  
mountain behind you, in this light, with the snow and all."

Scully could feel Mulder tense up behind her. She had, as well.

"You shouldn't take someone's picture without asking," Mulder said  
to him angrily. He let go of her, scrambled up so that he was  
standing behind her, facing the man now.

Mulder reached out his hand. "I'd like the roll of film, please."

The man's kind smile turned regretful. "I'm sorry, but I can't do  
that," he said, shaking his head. "I'm a professional photographer  
and I've got 20 shots of this place in various lightings I've been  
here all day trying to catch. I can't give you the film without  
losing a whole day's work. I'm very sorry if I've offended you,  
though."

The man did look stricken, clearly realizing his misstep now.  
Scully could see Mulder getting ready to argue, shifting his weight  
to his other foot.

A dog trotted up the rise after the man, a black Lab with eyes like  
a doe. It stopped beside him, sat, its face turned up toward Mulder,  
its tail moving uncertainly on the rocky ground.

Looking at the photographer, at the dog, Scully cringed inwardly.

She realized how strung out she and Mulder were, how suspicious  
they'd become. Sometimes it was hard to remember the world was filled  
with ordinary people, doing ordinary things, living ordinary lives.

She also realized that forcing the man to turn over the film might  
draw more attention to them than the pictures he'd taken ever could.

Thinking this, she reached out, touched Mulder's calf lightly,  
getting his attention. He looked down at her, and she could see his  
anger, borne of fear.

"It's okay," she murmured so that only he could hear. "I think it's  
okay."

Mulder looked from her to the man and back again. She nodded, and  
saw his shoulders fall slightly. He nodded, and she could tell it  
was reluctantly that he agreed with her.

"Look, if you give me your name and address, I'd love to send you a  
copy of the shots," the man offered earnestly. "I think you'll find  
they're really nice. I do good work."

Mulder shook his head, waving the man off, reached down as Scully  
began to rise and helped her into a standing position. She dusted  
off her coat, tried to smile at the stranger, who still looked  
stricken at Mulder's reaction.

"That's all right," Scully said to him. "You just might consider  
asking next time."

The man nodded. "I will. And I won't use the shots for anything.  
Again, I'm sorry."

And with one final look at Mulder, as though afraid Mulder might  
make some move toward him, he wandered away toward the lot down the  
hill from the rise, his dog following a few steps behind.

Mulder watched them go, his hands still balled to fists at his side,  
his jaw muscles still bunched with tension. Scully reached out and  
put her hand on his, worked his fingers apart until her gloved  
fingers were pressed against his palm.

"Come on," she said softly, reaching up to brush at a large flake  
that had caught in his hair. "Let's go back to the motel. I'll make  
some dinner."

He looked down at her, something in his gaze softening. Finally he  
nodded, gripped her hand.

Walking slowly, they made their way around the pueblo, walked back  
toward the battered truck as the light was muted by the clouds now  
over the mountain, the snow continuing to fall.

 

***********

 

ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL  
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX  
NEW YORK, NEW YORK  
5:35 p.m.

 

Jimmy Shea dipped his right middle finger in the small bowl of holy  
water, touched the cool water to his forehead as he took off his cap  
and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Then he made the sign of the  
cross quickly and went forward into the cavernous building, his  
footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he made his way slowly  
toward the altar.

This time of night, there was no light coming through the elaborate  
stained glass windows on either side of him, only faint dark outlines  
of surrounding saints. The light of a dozen random candles shone  
before statues of Christ and the Virgin in alcoves to his left and  
right, the candles sending up their bitter smoke prayers. Shea  
crossed himself again as he passed the statue of Mary, a habit since  
childhood.

The cathedral was nearly empty and completely silent except for his  
footsteps. The only other people, a knot of dark-clad figures in the  
front of the church, taking up the ends of two or three pews. They  
were leaned into each other, whispering, but Shea could not hear  
their voices.

Coming to the rows they were in, he genuflected, his eyes on the  
crucifix above the altar, then began walking sideways down the pew  
toward the group. They all turned as he did so, nodding. A man,  
tall and in his early forties, stood in the pew ahead. The man  
reached out his hand.

"Mr. Shea?" he asked as Shea took his hand, gave it a single shake.

"You must be Conail Rutherford," the older man replied, smiling  
kindly. Around him, the others watched him intently, as though it  
were important for them to get a good look.

"Aye," Rutherford said, smiled. "How was the trip over?" He  
gestured for Shea to sit.

Shea waved his hand, remained standing. "Ah, it was fine, fine.  
Got to see that film about the little bloke who does ballet."

Rutherford's smile widened. "That's good then," he said, then  
cleared his throat. He turned to the men around him. "This is Joey  
Sullivan..." he began, and introduced the entire group. Shea nodded  
to each of them, noting that he was the oldest of the group by at  
least 20 years.

"An honor to meet you, Mr. Shea," Sullivan said when Rutherford was  
finished. "My father's told stories of you as long as I can  
remember...what you did on Bloody Sunday, and up in Ballycastle--"

"No honor in doing what you can," Shea said quickly, his hand  
raising again to stop the listing. He offset his words with a small  
smile. Sullivan nodded, the words seeming to please him more.

"Fair enough," he said.

Shea turned to Rutherford. "I take it my packages were delivered  
without incident," he said, eager to get to business.

"Aye, we've got them in a suitcase here," Rutherford gestured to one  
of the other men, who pulled a black soft bag from beneath the pew he  
sat in and offered the heavy bundle to Shea.

"Fine, fine," Shea said, hefting the weight. "Any idea of where I'm  
headed first off?"

Rutherford nodded, reached into the seat and brought up a Rand  
McNally atlas of the States. He flipped through the pages until he  
found the right one -- a map of Kentucky.

"This was the last place he was seen," he said, pointing to a small  
town near the center of the state. Shea leaned forward in the dim  
light to look at it. Tyner. Just a speck on the map, he thought.  
And a long way off.

"I see," he said, setting the bag down on the pew. It made a  
thumping sound, things bumping against each other inside it. "I  
suppose that's where I'll head off to in the morning then. You've  
got a mobile telephone for me?"

"Aye, just as you requested," Rutherford said, and handed Shea a  
small cell phone. "We'll be calling you with any information we're  
able to find out. Hopefully we won't send you criss-crossing too  
much."

"You'll do what you can, I'm sure," Shea said, tucking the phone in  
his coat pocket. He then took the map from the younger man. "It's a  
big country, after all. Not like back home, that's for sure."

Rutherford shifted uncomfortably for a moment as Shea closed up the  
book, unzipped the suitcase and stuffed it inside. The silence that  
fell over the group was an awkward one. One of the men cleared his  
throat nervously.

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to take someone with you?"  
Rutherford asked carefully. "Any of these men would be happy to go,  
even if it was just to share the driving. A bit of company on the  
road."

The men around him nodded, clearly eager to do as Rutherford  
suggested. Shea was flattered by their enthusiasm, warmed by it.  
But he shook his head, smiling again.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said kindly. "I like to go about  
these things my own way. And I always work alone, as I'm sure you  
were told."

"I was, aye." Rutherford said. "It just might take some time.  
It's a lot of time to be on your own in a strange place."

"Oh, I'll manage," Shea replied quickly. "I've got plenty to keep  
me busy. I hear the fishing is good here. I bought one of those  
guidebooks to America so I could find some places to set a hook along  
the way. I'll be right as rain. Not to worry."

"All right," Rutherford said, and reached into his pocket, brought  
out a key on a ring. "Here's your ride then. It's out front. The  
black pickup with the camper top."

"That'll do me just fine," Shea said, and took the key. He was  
eager to go, to get back to his room and get some sleep. He reached  
his hand out to Rutherford again, who shook it.

"It really is an honor for us all to meet you, Mr. Shea," Rutherford  
said softly. "We appreciate your help with this...situation...a  
great deal. It's good to know it'll be done right."

Shea gave him a smaller smile. "It'll get done right, aye," he  
said, and there was something sad in his voice. He lifted the bag  
and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"I'll be in touch with any news," the younger man said, and Shea  
nodded and, with a raised hand, withdrew, going back up to the main  
aisle and out into the cold night.

He drove surely back to the house where he was being put up for the  
night, having watched the street names in the cab ride on the way  
over. Driving on the right side of the road came more easily than he  
imagined.

Once outside the small row house, he parked the truck carefully on  
the street, climbed wearily from the cab and walked up to the front  
door with his bundle. He rang the bell.

The person who owned the house, a woman about his age named Mary,  
answered immediately, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Oh, Mr. Shea, you didn't need to knock," she fussed, embarrassed.  
"I left the door unlocked for you, of course!"

He took off his cap as she made room for him to enter. "It's quite  
all right," he soothed, putting a hand on her arm. "I don't walk  
into anyone's home without knocking but my own. My Ruby would have  
my head if I showed she hadn't trained me any better."

Mary laughed at that, a high-pitched trill. "Well, I've got dinner  
for you when you're ready for it."

He nodded. "That's good. I'm going to attend to a few things and  
then I'll be right down."

"All right," Mary replied, and returned to the kitchen in the back  
of the house. The entire place smelled of bread and Shea inhaled the  
scent deeply, reminded of home.

He climbed the stairs and made his way to his room in the back,  
closing the door behind him. He went to the window and pulled the  
blinds slowly, closing out the New York City night.

Removing his coat, he laid it across the back of a chair in the  
corner, went to the full sized bed against the far wall, set the  
suitcase down on the quilt. Then he pulled the rifle case from  
beneath the bed, laid it out and opened it, exposing the pristine rod  
and reel.

He gently took it and the tackle out of the case, set it aside.  
Then he unzipped the suitcase, removed the map book, and then started  
pulling out the other contents.

A rifle butt, dark wood, shining with years of care.

The muzzle, long and straight.

He pulled out the pieces, five of them in all, including the high-  
powered scope that would fit on top once the rifle was assembled.

Opening his other suitcase on the bed, he drew out his tool kit and  
began to do just that, sliding the parts of the sniper's rifle into  
place, oiling the moving parts as he did so, making sure everything  
was lined up just so. He worked carefully, slowly, but with an  
assuredness that came with having done this task hundreds of times  
before.

Finally, he screwed the scope on the top, set the bolt and raised  
the gun toward the window, peering down the sights through the  
crosshairs.

Everything seemed to be in order. He gave the gun one more wipe  
down with the cleaning cloth he kept in the tool kit, then carefully  
laid the rifle in the case, which he'd had custom-made to fit it  
decades ago.

Latching the case closed, he locked it with the tiny lock, then  
placed it beneath the bed once again. He replaced his tools, taking  
the same care with them he'd taken with the rifle itself.

Then, taking the rod and tackle and placing them carefully in the  
suitcase the rifle had been in, he zipped it closed and set it and  
his other suitcase back on the floor.

He stood back, surveying the room for a sign of anything looking  
amiss. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or out of place.

He let himself relax for the first time in hours.

That's when the image of the small boy came into his mind. The boy  
was hanging around his father's legs at the stone wall near a pasture  
of pure green. He was laughing as Shea -- a young man then --  
squatted down, smiling back, urging him to come forward.

He pushed the thought away with a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping  
with it.

That kind of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere.

With that, he turned, went out the door, down the hallway to the  
small bath to wash up for his meal.

 

*********

 

END OF CHAPTER 4. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 5a.

 

*************

PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO  
BAHIA DE ADAIR GULF OF CALIFORNIA  
MARCH 21  
11:38 a.m.

 

The sea stretched out a cobalt blue, small breakers on the  
shoreline, the waves' hair blown back white. The sea itself was  
beautiful, but the woman could not fool herself into thinking the  
beach was. The blowing trash along the high dunes ruined any such  
illusions, the sound of paper rustling lodged in the wind coming off  
the ocean.

Around her, tourists lay out like beached fish on their towels,  
their winter-white bodies soaking up the mid-day sun. American music  
competed with the sound of the waves, the tunes coming from a group  
of what she assumed were college students down from the States.

She'd been seeing a lot of them the past few weeks as they came down  
for Spring Break, venturing into Mexico for a cheap holiday on the  
coast. They were vibrant and carefree and laughed constantly on the  
beach and in the ramshackle town behind her, and the influx of them  
had made the woman more depressed than she was already.

It had been a long time since she had laughed -- or felt -- like  
that.

If she'd ever felt like that.

She watched the young women's faces as they sat up in their bright  
bikinis, looking at the young men playing volleyball and frisbee on  
the sand. They whispered to each other, giggling, planning...

It was all one huge game to them, she thought, then looked the other  
way, squinting against the glaring sun. She sighed.

Though she, too, didn't belong here, it was clear she was not on  
holiday. She was a solitary figure on the beach, a loose white  
cotton shirt hiding her sensitive skin from the sun, jeans covering  
her legs. Her sandals sat beside her. Her thick dark hair was  
pulled into a loose ponytail that trailed down to the center of her  
back, stray strands ruffled by the wind around her face. She wore  
dark sunglasses to hide her pale blue eyes.

Besides her attire, there was a set to her that showed she was not  
at ease. A certain tension. A wariness. And a tired, careworn  
expression on her face.

She sat silent, still, her knees drawn up, her arms crossed around  
them, her shirt cuffed to the elbows.

Her eyes followed a figure moving along the shoreline down by the  
rocky tidal pools at the edge of the water. She watched the small  
boy squat now and again, picking up things he found in the crevices  
of the dark mazed stone. The waves washed gently up in this area,  
carrying small crabs, fish, into the shallow pools.

Playing in them was one of the boy's favorite pastimes here, and she  
tried to indulge him by coming to the beach every day to let him  
play. The rest of their lives were so quiet, sheltered even from  
most of the other people in the town. She had to allow him this one  
pleasure he'd found here.

After he'd lost so much.

After they both had lost so much.

Or was it that she had taken it all away?

That thought and a peal of laughter from the young women beside her  
sent her to her feet. She brushed at the sand on her clothes,  
reached down for her sandals, began walking toward the boy at the  
edge of the sea.

He was standing up now, facing the ocean, looking at something. She  
put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes to try and see what  
he saw. He turned, caught sight of her approaching.

"Look!" the boy shouted. "Look! A seal!"

Then she saw the dark shape curving through the water. It stopped  
to look at them curiously.

"Do you see it?" the boy asked as she bent and put her sandals on  
so that she could traverse the rocky terrain.

"Aye, Sean, I see him," she said, and walked until she stood beside  
him. He was clad in multicolored Guatemalan shorts she'd bought in  
town, a white undershirt, his feet also in thick sandals.

The seal stayed where it was, bobbing slightly in the waves.

"He's looking at you, I think," she said, smoothed down the boy's  
unruly hair. He was badly in need of a cut.

"You think?" he asked, seeming to consider the idea seriously.

"I do," she said, nodded as he turned his tanned face up toward  
hers, then back to the seal.

The three of them regarded each other silently for a long moment.

Then the seal turned once, dipped below the surface and was gone.

Mae Curran looked down at her nephew now, his small hands fisted in  
front of him.

"Let me see what you've found then," she said, and squatted down so  
that her face was almost even with his. He opened his hands and  
showed her what he had.

Small round rocks, a tiny purple crab claw, small halves of white  
and black shells.

"That's a good haul for one morning." She smiled up at him. "Go  
ahead and put those in your pockets and we'll set them on the sill  
with your other things."

"Okay," he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. She could  
hear the shells clinking softly against the stones.

"Let's go get something to eat," she said, and, taking his hand, she  
led him up the beach.

 

**********

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE  
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA  
12:32 p.m.

 

"Here's another stack for you, Agent Granger."

The voice and the body attached to it appeared so suddenly in front  
of Granger's desk that he nearly jumped, his head jerking up in  
surprise. Instinctively, he pressed the file he was reading -- one  
on Mae Curran -- up against his chest, though he immediately reminded  
himself that the file was actually *all right* for him to be looking  
at.

He really didn't have the nerve for this kind of subterfuge. He  
hoped to get used to it soon.

"Well, do you want them or not?"

Agent Stiles, also assigned to the task force to find both Curran  
and Mulder, gave Granger a put-out look as he shifted from one foot  
to the other and hefted the stack of reports. Though Stiles was  
technically Granger's subordinate on the case, he was much older and  
seemed to be having a difficult time mustering the respect his  
superior deserved.

Granger, unaccustomed to the role himself, let it slide.

"Uh...sure. Go ahead and set them down there." He gestured to the  
corner of the desk, the one spot not already covered with files and  
yellow legal pads scribbled with notes in Granger's precise  
handwriting.

Stiles set them down unceremoniously, smirked. "Looks like a bunch  
of red herrings to me, though these were the most promising of the  
ones we've been through. I think people are seeing Curran and Mulder  
more than they're seeing Elvis this year."

Granger forced a smile. "Thank you. I'll have a look through  
them."

Stiles turned and moved toward the door. "Have fun looking for your  
needles," he called over his shoulder, and disappeared into the busy  
hallway outside Granger's quiet office.

Granger set the file he'd been looking at down, eyed the stack of  
police reports wearily. This would be the fifth stack he'd been  
through in two days, the reports filtered to him if they seemed to  
hold any hint of veracity. He'd gotten good at flipping through  
them, discarding the obvious still shots of johns and prostitutes  
from motel security cameras, an endless collection of dark haired men  
in sunglasses and garish, auburn haired women.

And Curran would be nearly impossible to pick out from the scratchy  
photos. It seemed any man who entered a motel with a facial scar was  
flagged for the police. It was his one identifying feature.  
Otherwise, Curran could be any man in his late thirties. He blended  
in that well.

He'd made a lifetime out of blending in.

Sighing, Granger pulled the reports toward him, flipped through the  
files. Tuba City, Arizona. Tombstone, Arizona. Topeka, Kansas.  
Oakland, California. Durango, Colorado. He looked at the photos  
attached to each file, staring at the faces in front of the counters  
of the motels and gas stations.

A dark haired man who looked like Mulder but who was not Mulder.

A nondescript man, too young to be Curran, probably paying for gas.

A woman, long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, buying a pack of  
cigarettes.

In other words, a whole bunch of nothing. He kept moving through  
the stack.

Then, on the folder marked "El Centro, California," Granger froze,  
pulled the black and white picture from the folder and held it up to  
get it in better light. He squinted at it through his glasses, his  
head cocking to one side.

A youngish, very thin woman in a black baseball cap, sunglasses,  
passing cash across the counter of a convenience store. Behind her,  
a man in profile, looking out the doorway they'd come. Sunglasses.  
Dark hair and beard. Lean. Strong nose. His hand was on the  
woman's shoulder as if to hasten her along in paying for the cups of  
coffee that sat on the counter.

It was them. It had to be, he thought.

He studied the picture for another long moment, frowning. Scully  
was so gaunt, her clothes swallowing her. And Mulder, even in the  
still photo, looked so on edge, looking behind him, his hand on her  
shoulder protective, but like a warning.

The time on the road was taking its toll. And he knew Scully had  
been hurt the last time he'd talked to Mulder all those weeks ago  
from his hospital bed. He wondered how badly she'd been hurt now,  
seeing her changed so much in the photo.

Granger shook his head sadly. He could only imagine what they were  
going through. He would have to work more quickly to do what he  
could to bring them home again.

Someone passed his office door and Granger's eyes darted up  
instantly. Though the person didn't even glance in, Granger stuffed  
the photo back into the folder, closed it, reaching down to jerk open  
a drawer in his desk, one with a lock. He pushed the folder into it,  
closed it quickly and reached into his pocket for his keys. Choosing  
the proper one, he locked the drawer with an audible "click."

When his phone beeped a second or two later, before he'd even  
righted himself in his chair again, he nearly jumped out of his skin,  
feeling caught. Blowing out a breath, he pressed the button on the  
phone.

"Granger."

"Agent Granger."

Shit. Padden.

"Yes, Dr. Padden?" He tried to sound formal and at ease at the same  
time, only marginally succeeding.

"Would you mind joining me in my office for a few moments?" Padden  
replied, his voice strangely friendly. Light.

Granger frowned again. He had a sudden vision of he and Padden  
sitting across the desk from each other yukking it up over the  
Letterman show or something. His superior's tone was that casual.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the phone, his guard coming up.

"Of course, sir," was what he said aloud. "I'll be there  
momentarily."

"Very good." The light went off on the intercom button.

Five minutes later he was stiff in his dark suit jacket once again,  
his tie straightened and knotted down tightly, walking into the  
receiving area of Padden's temporary office, the one assigned to him  
while the task force was based at the CIA.

The secretary smiled kindly to him. He smiled back, though it was  
hard.

"Go on in, Agent Granger," the woman said.

Granger pushed the door open and entered the office. It was a huge  
space, the vertical blinds all but drawn on the windows, obscuring  
the view of the grounds. What little light filtered into the  
cavernous room was absorbed by the darkness of the office, all the  
furniture black. The bookshelves lining one whole wall. The low  
table beside the window covered with plants that Granger could tell  
were fake even from where he stood. Black leather chairs gathered at  
the far end of the room, just in front of the wide, neat desk.

Robert Padden, Director of the NSA, sat behind that desk, just  
beneath an oil portrait of someone Granger didn't recognize but whose  
eyes seemed to follow him as he made his way across the forest green  
oriental rug toward the desk. The rug was expensive and so heavily  
padded that Granger's footfalls didn't make a sound as he came  
forward. It was as if the office consumed even that.

"Agent Granger," Padden said as he stood, came around the desk, a  
smile on his face, creasing his cheeks against the bottoms of his  
reading glasses. "It's a relief to see you up and around and back at  
work again after the seriousness of your injuries."

Much to Granger's surprise, the other man reached out his hand,  
which Granger shook uncertainly as he stood in front of one of the  
chairs. Gone was the man who had screamed at he and Skinner in his  
hospital room. Gone was the man who had firmly interrogated him on  
the phone at home. He didn't know what to make of this person in  
front of him.

"Thank you, sir," he replied cautiously. "I'm feeling fine now."

"Just that limp to deal with?" Padden asked, and withdrew behind  
the desk again, taking a seat in the high back chair. "That's not  
permanent, I hope."

"No," Granger said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the limp.  
"It shouldn't be permanent. It just needs a little more time." He  
sat as Padden did, sitting in the stiff chair, which creaked beneath  
him, being made out of something's hide.

"Good, good." Padden leaned forward, folding his hands in front of  
him on the desk, his expression still easy, friendly. "I'm sorry I  
didn't get to see you yesterday when I was in. Trying to run this  
level of a manhunt and keep the NSA running on its rails...you can  
imagine it requires a great deal of my attention."

"Yes," Granger replied, smiling faintly. "I imagine so." He  
watched the other man carefully, sizing him up. If this was all an  
act, Granger thought -- and he was almost certain it was -- Padden  
was doing a hell of a job at it. His guard came up a notch more.

"So." Padden took off the reading glasses, setting them carefully  
on the desk.

Here is comes, Granger thought.

"What are your initial thoughts on Owen Curran and Agent Mulder?"  
he asked. "I know you've only been back for a few days, but I wanted  
to know your impressions."

"My impressions on what aspects of them, sir?" Granger wanted to  
know more about what specifically Padden was fishing for, lest he say  
something that he shouldn't, something that could be slanted and  
later used in a way he didn't intend.

Padden shrugged, leaned back in the chair. "What you think is  
motivating both of them at this juncture, what they might be up to.  
If they're together, that sort of thing."

Granger felt a flare of anger, like a match being struck in his  
head. He snuffed it out instantly.

"No, sir, they're not together," he replied slowly. "Agent Mulder  
has had no dealings with Owen Curran. He was not involved with any  
conspiracy to bomb the embassy, as I believe I've mentioned before."

"Yes, so you've asserted," Padden replied. "And though I do hope,  
of course, that you are right about this, I don't share your  
certainty about that fact. Hence my question."

Granger's tie felt too tight. "The only connection between Agent  
Mulder and Owen Curran," he said quietly, "would be Agent Scully.  
She is what is motivating both of them right now. But for different  
reasons, of course."

"How do you mean?" Padden asked, his brows squinting down.

"Based on what I know of Owen Curran, I would say that Curran is  
concentrating his energy on finding Agent Scully." He neglected to  
mention that everything he knew about Curran had come from Mulder's  
profile in Richmond. He didn't think Padden would appreciate that  
knowledge very much, and kept it to himself.

"For what purpose?" Padden asked incredulously. "Surely he knows  
that she would have relayed all of her information to us before her  
cover was exposed. It seems to me that killing her at this point  
would be a futile use of his energy."

Again Padden smiled, this time almost apologetically.

"Because revenge is what motivates Owen Curran, sir," Granger  
replied carefully. "He feels, at the least, that Agent Scully was  
responsible for his bombing being unsuccessful."

Padden said nothing, so Granger pressed on.

"I also believe that Agent Scully resembling Curran's wife so  
closely allowed him to develop a level of attachment to her that  
would make her betrayal of him even more of an insult. He would have  
trusted her, probably more than he does most people outside his  
family, and he will not take kindly to that trust being abused."

"I see," Padden said after a beat. "You sound quite certain of your  
theories, Agent Granger. That's good to hear."

Granger kept his face neutral, not rising to the compliment, knowing  
there was something behind it. Padden was doing everything he could  
to put him at ease, to seem reasonable.

And Granger didn't like it one bit.

Padden leaned back a bit more in the posh leather chair, pushed at a  
pen on the desk top absently. "You said Agent Scully was motivating  
Agent Mulder at this point, as well. What do you mean by that?"

Granger shifted a bit in his seat, knowing he had to tread  
particularly carefully in this terrain. "Agent Mulder is protecting  
Agent Scully from Curran," he said, his voice devoid or emotion or  
inflection.

"But why is that necessary?" Padden replied, and his voice now did  
betray some frustration. "Surely they both know that we could  
protect Agent Scully much better in a safe house than they could  
possibly be doing on their own."

Granger looked at Padden now, and felt anger flare in him again.  
This time, he knew it made it to his face. "Because I believe that  
Agent Mulder doesn't trust you, sir," he said, his voice the same  
monotone. "I think he believes that you will do anything you can to  
capture Owen Curran, even if it means sacrificing Agent Scully's life  
to do it."

Padden chuckled bitterly. "The famous Fox Mulder paranoia," he said  
dismissively. "Which he seems to have given to Agent Scully, as  
well."

"Sir," Granger said as Padden's chuckle subsided. "You must admit  
that you *did,* in fact, suppress the information about Agent  
Scully's resemblance to Elisa Curran, even though you must have  
realized that likeness would place her at more risk, given Curran's  
attachment to his wife and the circumstances of her death."

"That's nonsense," Padden replied, his voice peeved. "Yes, we'd  
noticed a slight resemblance but we didn't 'suppress' that  
information. We just didn't feel that it had any tactical  
importance. We still don't. Agent Mulder overreacted to that  
information. Overreacted badly."

Granger watched his face, the profiler in him watching the  
expressions that crossed it. They were subtle -- Padden was clearly  
used to hiding his feelings well -- but Granger saw them nonetheless.

Padden was, as Granger's mother used to say, "lying like a rug."

It was not, however, the time to call him on that. Granger had too  
much work to do and did not need to be in an openly antagonistic  
relationship with his superior at this juncture. There was too much  
at stake.

"This...protectiveness...Agent Mulder has of Agent Scully," Padden  
began, his eyes on the desk, on the shining gold pen he'd been toying  
with before. "What do you make of that?"

Granger became very still. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," he  
said, and meant it. He didn't like the turn of the conversation, the  
probing tone in Padden's voice, the quietness of it.

"What do you make of their relationship?" Padden pressed.  
"Generally speaking."

Choosing his words with care, Granger shifted in his seat and  
responded. "Agents Mulder and Scully are two of the best matched  
partners I've ever encountered. Consummate professionals in their  
work. Loyal to each other. Vigilant. Balanced in their seemingly  
contradictory views and methods. I think the fact that the work  
they've done on the X-Files for the past eight years has been under  
so much ridicule and suspicion both inside and outside the Bureau has  
given their partnership more importance to them both, since they seem  
to have no one to rely on for affirmation of their work but each  
other."

"An "Us Against Them" mentality, in other words?" Padden asked.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Granger replied, though he didn't  
like the implied negative connotation of Padden's words.

Padden nodded, leaned forward, folding his hands in front of them.  
"What about their personal relationship?" he asked, looking at  
Granger over the flat-topped rims of his glasses.

Granger looked back, forcing his face to remain neutral. "I have  
very little information on that, sir. I did not get the opportunity  
to see them outside of their working relationship."

"Surely you must have gotten a sense of Mulder's feelings from  
spending so much time with him in Richmond," Padden persisted. He'd  
had yet to move.

Now Granger did squirm a bit under the other man's intense scrutiny.  
"He's very loyal to Agent Scully," he said noncommitedly, using the  
most innocuous yet accurate word he could come up with.

Padden nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursing as he looked down.  
Then he pinned Granger with his gaze once again. "Could there be  
more to it than that?"

Granger froze again, swallowed. "How do you mean, sir?"

Padden leaned back again now. "Frankly, I'm wondering if there's  
something going on between them personally -- and by that I mean  
sexually -- that is causing this behavior. A level of attachment  
that would cause Agent Mulder to ruin his career by avoiding coming  
in and facing these charges against him, that would cause Agent  
Scully to sully her reputation by running, as well." He shook his  
head. "This behavior is very irregular. You'd have to agree with me  
on that point, Agent Granger."

"How would a romantic relationship of some kind contribute to that?"  
Granger replied cautiously. "I think their partnership -- their  
level of commitment to that -- is enough to cause what we're  
seeing."

"I don't think so, Paul."

Paul? Granger chafed.

Padden sighed. "I think, frankly, that they've compromised  
themselves, gotten too involved with one another so that they've lost  
their perspective. Many of us noted it while Agent Scully was  
undercover, Mulder's overly emotional reactions to things, his  
protectiveness, his anger at being separated from her. I think it's  
this overreaction based on their attachment that is causing all this.  
It's not anything I've done, or that the task force has done. I  
think that Mulder has used his personal relationship with Agent  
Scully to fool her into sacrificing herself and her position to  
protect him, to run with him. I think she's being brainwashed by  
him, to be honest. I think she's believing his paranoia about me and  
the task force to avoid facing the truth of his involvement with  
Curran."

Granger's hands clenched down on the arms of the chair, the leather  
squeaking in protest.

"You're wrong about all that, sir," he said, tight lipped. "You're  
wrong on so many levels. Agent Scully could not be 'brainwashed' by  
anyone, for starters. She's the most professional, level-headed  
agent I've ever met. She sets a standard with her approach and  
conduct."

"Not anymore." Padden's face had hardened now to the craggy mask  
that Granger had known in Richmond. He was almost glad to see its  
return, because it was, at least, familiar.

"Mulder would never do anything to compromise Agent Scully," Granger  
continued, stoked now at the insinuations about Scully and Mulder's  
manipulation of her. "Quite the opposite, in fact. He would do  
anything he could to protect her. And not because of any sort of  
romantic involvement. Because of their partnership."

Padden picked up the pen, pushed at a file on the desktop with the  
blunt end of it, his eyes averted. "I wonder if your feelings on  
this matter are quite clear," he said softly.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Granger replied stiffly.

"It was no secret here at the CIA, I'm told, that you are a great  
admirer of Mulder's profiling work," Padden said, glancing up and  
Granger and frowning. "There are some on the task force who are  
wondering how impartial you're able to be in your work on this case.  
That concerns a great many people, to be quite honest."

Granger recognized the ploy -- the insinuation coming in punishment  
for Granger's assertion that Padden was wrong.

"Who exactly is being profiled here, Dr. Padden?" Granger replied  
quietly. "Me or Agent Mulder and Owen Curran?"

"All three of you, to some extent, Paul," Padden replied. "Your  
work is being closely watched on this. Some of your past actions  
have been somewhat... questionable... shall we say? At least as far  
as Agent Mulder is concerned. There are those who don't think you're  
up for the task of bring him in, that your heart isn't in it."

Granger stood then slowly, took the two steps toward the desk. He  
was fuming, but kept it simmering deep.

"I can promise you, Dr. Padden, that I will do everything in my  
power to locate Agents Mulder and Scully and Owen Curran," he said  
formally.

Again, Padden's face crimped with that strange, patronizing smile.  
"I'm sure you will," he said.

There was a strange moment as the two of them regarded each other  
silently. Granger pulled himself up straighter.

"If there's nothing else, sir, I have some files to attend to."

"Of course," Padden replied, standing. "I'll expect a full progress  
report by the end of the week, and sooner if there are any major  
developments."

Granger nodded, turned on his heel and left the room, closing the  
door quietly behind him, the sunlight of the outer office assaulting  
him.

Out in the bustle of the hallway, Granger made his way toward his  
office, his teeth clenched in rage. When he reached it, he closed  
the door perhaps a little too hard, went behind the desk and stood  
for a moment, facing the window. He reached up, took off his  
glasses, rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly to calm his nerves.

After a moment, he replaced his glasses and glanced behind him, at  
the locked drawer of his desk, the memory of the photo coming back to  
him.

Mulder's hand on Scully's shoulder. The thinness of her face and  
arms.

He had to DO something. Find something that could help clear  
Mulder's -- and now Scully's, it would seem -- name.

He needed proof. Of something. Anything.

A picture of Mulder standing in the airport waiting for Scully to  
show for her plane entered his mind, an imagining of Mulder tensely  
watching the passengers board the plane bound for Boston.

Padden had stated on the phone weeks ago that he didn't really  
believe that Mulder had ever been at the airport at all.

Surely someone would have seen Mulder there. Surely there was  
someone who could vouch for that.

It was a place to start, at least.

Turning, he picked up the phone, dialed the number for toll-free  
directory assistance.

"What listing?" the computerized voice prompted.

"Richmond International Airport," Granger said, watching the shadows  
of people passing by beneath his office door.

 

***********

END OF CHAPTER 5a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 5b.

 

**********

 

PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO  
12:35 p.m.

 

Mae and Sean drifted through the open-air market, past the stands  
selling fireworks and firewood for the tourists on the beach, past  
the stalls steaming with the heavy smell of heavy food, the garish  
storefronts peddling Mexican blankets and sombreros so huge and  
useless that only an American would buy them.

"It's the Movie Star," one of the storefront vendors called from his  
stool. "Seorita West, buenos d'as. You are looking beautiful  
today, as always."

"Thank you, Enrico," Mae replied, gave him a small smile. It was a  
near-daily ritual for her, the attention of the men in the center of  
town. It was impossible to be a woman -- and a foreign one,  
particularly -- and really blend in, so she did her best to accept  
the attention in stride, casually, so as not to draw suspicion.

Sean walked slowly just behind Mae, and she turned to make sure he  
was still there. He was looking down as he walked, appearing deep in  
thought.

"Sean?" she asked, and stopped to let him catch up, knelt down in  
front of him and took his hand. "Qu pasa, Seor West?"

She hoped to get a rise out of him, both with her Irish-accented  
Spanish -- she was dreadful at the language -- and with the use of  
their fake name, and did. He looked up at her and a smile tugged at  
the corners of his mouth. She was glad to see it. He'd become so  
serious over the weeks. Broody. Quiet. Much like his father that  
way, and for many of the same reasons.

Loss seemed to cling to her family like a cobweb. It always had.  
And all of them had worn it on their faces, in the way they carried  
themselves and moved through the world. Her mother. Her father  
before he disappeared into prison and never returned. Her brother  
James. Owen. And now Sean, as well.

He said nothing in response to her question about what was the  
matter, however. Just looked at her as though he had something to  
say and couldn't say it. Mae felt sadness wash over her as she  
looked at him.

"What do you want to eat? Anything you want." She stroked down his  
hair again.

"I want one of Seora Mart'nez's burritos," Sean replied softly.

Her smile widened. "And I bet you want to ride Seor Mart'nez's  
burro while she makes it, as well, don't you?"

Now Sean broke into a wider, shy smile as he looked down, clearly  
caught. Mae reached out and tickled his middle and he squirmed and a  
laugh chirped out of him.

"I know your game, little man," she said, and tickled him again.  
"We'll see if Seor Mart'nez will let you today then."

She stood, still holding his hand, started toward the far end of  
town where the Mart'nez family lived, selling food straight from  
their own ramshackle kitchen.

The catcalls and greetings continued as she walked along, and she  
ignored those from people she didn't know, said hello to the ones she  
did.

Then she passed a stall and saw a familiar face. The man -- an  
American with sun bleached brown hair and brown eyes, lean with a  
surfer's body and clad in jeans and a t-shirt that hugged his chest  
just a touch -- turned as she approached, smiling kindly.

"Hello, Mr. Porter," Sean said, and the man came forward, put a hand  
on Sean's head.

"Hello, Sean. Katherine."

Mae smiled back at him shyly. "How are you, Joe? A good day on the  
boat?"

Porter smiled back at her warmly, taking her in. "Yes, we got a  
good catch this morning."

"That's good then," she replied. She hated that she had a hard time  
meeting his eyes. She wasn't accustomed to being so shy. But  
meeting up with him always made her feel awkward.

"Seor West!" a voice boomed from across the street. "I have  
something for you!" It was Paco, the bone salesman, his storefront  
stacked with cow skulls and stinking of bleach, even from where Mae  
stood.

"Can I go?" Sean asked, looking up at Mae, his expression excited  
for once, and she nodded reluctantly. She hated the thought of the  
place.

"Go on, but hurry now." She ushered him forward and he darted  
across the dirt road. Cars weren't allowed in the tourist market  
area, so she let him go without a thought.

"You look tired," Porter said quietly.

"I'm all right," she said, brushing him off and looking down at his  
sandalled feet. Then she felt his finger on her chin, tilting her  
face up. His eyes probed hers for a long moment, though neither of  
them said anything while he did so.

Finally, Mae broke the silence. "Tonight," she nearly whispered.  
"Ten."

He dropped his hand, nodded, taking a step back as Sean returned,  
carrying a stuffed armadillo under his arm like a football.

"Ach, Sean!" Mae protested, her face screwing into a look of disgust.

"He said I could have it," Sean insisted, holding it up so Mae could  
see. Its stunned glass eyes stared up at her, its obscenely long  
toes curled.

Joe laughed. "Those go for $60," he said. "Paco must be feeling  
generous today."

"Can I keep it?" Sean asked, and Mae could tell it meant something  
to him, so she relented immediately.

"All right," she said, "But you're washing your hands at the  
Mart'nez's. And don't get it near me."

Sean smiled and replaced the animal beneath his arm, pleased to have  
grossed her out.

Joe laughed again as he watched them, put his hand back on Sean's  
head, tussling his hair.

"See you, Sean," he said, and nodded to Mae. "Katherine." And he  
moved on through the crowd. Mae watched his back through the thin  
fabric of his shirt.

**

11:30 p.m.

Mae's nails dug into his back, her legs clenching his waist as his  
movements shortened, quickened. She gasped, turning her head into  
his throat, her mouth open against him, her breath fanning the hair  
over his shoulder.

"Oh God, Joe..." she whispered. "God yes..."

Her words seemed to urge him on, his thrusting into her deepening,  
and she pulled him to her tightly as she shuddered finally, stifling  
a cry by biting down on his shoulder. He was already trembling, as  
well, his face in her hair, a quiet groan escaping him as his hips  
slowed their movements and finally stopped.

They were both panting, drenched with sweat, as they rolled onto  
their sides, Joe's lips finding hers as her legs relaxed and she  
straightened them, their knees touching. She let their lips touch  
for a brief moment, then withdrew her face, pulling his down beneath  
her chin. His lips roamed her chest as his breathing began to even  
out.

If he noticed the brush-off she'd just given him, he gave no  
indication of it.

Stretching her arms over her head, Mae rolled over, so that her back  
was to his front, pillowing her head on her forearm. He moved over  
until he was pressed against her, his arm draped across her waist and  
resting on her belly. He leaned up and kissed her temple.

"You always turn away from me after we make love," he whispered.  
"Why is that?"

The question took her by surprise. It wasn't that what he said  
wasn't true -- it was that after all these weeks she thought if it  
bothered him he would have mentioned it sooner.

"Don't know," she murmured, keeping her voice low. She didn't want  
to wake Sean, asleep in the room across the hall on the other side of  
her bedroom's locked door. She started to roll back over, but he  
stopped her.

"No, don't. If it's what you want, it's all right." He settled his  
head on the pillow behind hers, his hand coming up and smoothing down  
the curls in her long hair. They were silent for a long moment. Mae  
closed her eyes, breathing out a long sigh.

"It's so strange to me," he said softly into the quiet.

She opened her eyes. "What's strange?"

His hand continued to stroke her hair gently. "That you'll sleep  
with me, but you won't tell me anything about yourself. Why you're  
here."

"I've told you why I'm here," she replied softly. "We're on  
holiday."

He chuffed softly. "Katherine, people don't come to this  
Godforsaken place for more than a day or two. If they're going on  
vacation in Mexico, they go to Cancun or Acapulco. Not this place.  
Anybody who stays here for more than a few days has to be hiding from  
something."

She looked down at the bend of his arm, the scars of needlemarks  
still pink-going-to white against his tan skin.

"Just because you came here to run from something doesn't mean  
everyone does," she said, her voice still pitched low.

He was quiet for a moment. "I know you're not telling me the  
truth," he said softly, but there was no anger, no accusation in his  
voice. Just a tired sadness. "I hope someday that you'll trust me  
enough that you will."

She said nothing to that. His arm reached around her protectively,  
pulling her against him more tightly as he settled down, going still  
behind her.

Mae lay there, thinking about what he'd said. It took her a long  
time to fall asleep.

 

***********

END OF CHAPTER 5b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6.


	2. Chapter 2

JEFFERSON MEMORIAL  
THE BANKS OF THE POTOMAC  
WASHINGTON, D.C.  
MARCH 22  
12:13 p.m.

 

Margaret Scully pushed her hands deeper into her pockets, uncrossed  
her legs to press her knees tightly together for warmth as the snow,  
blown in a stiff breeze, dotted the air around her, mixing with the  
soft pinks of cherry blossom petals caught unaware by the  
springtime's winter squall.

The snow wasn't sticking to the sidewalk in front of the bench she  
sat on -- it had been too warm for that -- but it was leaving a thin  
layer of white on the new grass that surrounded the domed monument in  
front of her. She knew the storm would blow over quickly and the snow  
would be gone in the sunlight, but for now she watched it gather on  
the slender blades, watched it bend their thin green backs.

She checked her watch as a group of tourists passed by in front of  
her. She was early, but she didn't mind the wait. It helped her  
gather herself, allowed her to swallow down the emotions churning  
inside her. The worry. The sadness.

The rage.

None of them would serve her now. She would not allow herself to  
appear anything other than formal and collected on this day for a  
number of reasons. For one, she knew being overly emotional would get  
her nowhere, and might even hinder the task she had a hand.

And for another, Dana would want her to be this way.

So she blew out a calm, slow breath into the air, her large eyes  
scanning the scattering of tourists moving in and out of the monument  
and along the bank of the river behind her.

She tried to force herself to relax, to not appear to be shrouded in  
the tension and grief she wore around her body. She could feel the  
corners of her mouth, however, turn down. It was the expression her  
face had found in the past three months whenever she wasn't forcing  
it into some other shape, which she was usually doing for someone  
else's benefit. Bill's. Charlie's. Her friends'.

A snowflake caught on her long lashes and hung there until she  
blinked it away, like a light, cold tear.

She was still scanning the faces around the monument when she saw  
him, his coat pulled tightly around him, his mouth a tight line. He  
caught sight of her almost immediately and walked with purpose now  
toward her, cutting across a square of lawn in the interest of  
efficiency, leaving a faint dark line of prints behind him in the  
newborn snow. His eyes darted from side to side behind his glasses as  
he approached.

Stopping a foot or so in front of her, purposefully standing a  
little too close, Skinner looked down at her. She gazed up at him,  
saw somewhere in his expression a mirror of what she was feeling. And  
something else.

Tension verging on fear.

He blew out a warm breath into the cold air, looked away from her.

She swallowed down on a lump in her throat, but otherwise did not  
move. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Skinner," she said softly, trying to  
pull his gaze to hers with the intensity of her eyes.

"Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be meeting you once again under such  
circumstances." He managed to avoid her gaze, looking over her at the  
water. His mouth barely moved as he spoke, just enough to form the  
words and nothing more. "But as I told you over the telephone,  
there's nothing I can tell you about the whereabouts of your daughter  
or the circumstances of her absence."

"So you've said," she replied, her voice dead flat calm. "I've asked  
you here to try to convince you to reconsider that."

His voice dropped to just above a whisper as he stood still, his  
eyes still straight ahead. "I can't do that," he said. "We're being  
watched. I'm certain of it."

"Mr. Skinner," she began, and now the bitterness did seep into her  
voice. "I've had NSA and CIA agents interviewing me for the past two  
months, at least once a week, checking to see if I've heard anything  
from my daughter, asking personal questions about everything from her  
eating habits to where we spent our family vacations. I am under the  
impression that my phone and perhaps my house are being wire-tapped,  
and that I am most likely being followed most places I go. Now you'll  
have to pardon me if I don't react strongly to the thought of being  
watched standing here with you."

"Lower your voice, please," he hissed, though he did not say it  
unkindly.

"What's happened to my daughter, Mr. Skinner?" she asked, seeming to  
ignore him except for the fact that she did indeed speak softly as  
she said it.

Skinner pulled up a little straighter, and she could see his hands  
clench in his pockets. He seemed to consider for a moment, selecting  
and discarding words as he spoke slowly, carefully.

"She is under investigation by a joint task force for her  
involvement in a classified operation."

It was the most she'd gotten out of any of them, and she nodded. The  
vagueness of it still irritated her. It reminded her of some of the  
nonsense she'd gotten during Vietnam when her husband was at sea. She  
supposed she should be used to it on some level, but she wasn't.  
She'd never gotten used to not knowing.

Now he did look down at her. "That's all I can tell you. To reveal  
any other information would be violating my security clearance and  
could cost me my job and possibly my freedom, Mrs. Scully. I ask for  
your understanding of my rather precarious position in all this."

"It's that Irish man, isn't it?" she insisted. "The one that's been  
all over the news since the embassy bombing. She has something to do  
with that, doesn't she? And Fox. I know that he's gone, too. I've  
tried to call him for weeks now and gotten nothing."

Skinner gaped, looking at her still, then the expression was gone in  
a flash. "I can't confirm or deny her involvement with the embassy  
bombing or anything else," he bit out. "I'm sorry."

She continued as though he hadn't responded at all. "That's when the  
first agents showed up at my door. Right after that happened."

She watched him go quiet, still, in front of her. He was looking off  
to the side, at a small knot of what looked like businessmen coming  
toward them on the path beside the river. He watched them until they  
passed.

She softened some in his silence, the grief taking hold for a  
moment. She felt it breaking over her face, though the tears did not  
come.

"I don't understand why she can't get word to me that she's all  
right," she said, and there was something imploring in her voice, a  
crack in the shell she'd placed around herself. "I don't understand  
why she would be hiding from the FBI, from the government. It makes  
no sense to me, any of it. This isn't like her. This isn't what she's  
about."

"I'm sure she has her reasons." He said it with a gentle conviction  
that she found somehow comforting. He was trying to reassure her as  
best he could. She could tell that. But she found herself shaking her  
head, trying to make it all make sense. She could not.

The snow gathered on Skinner's shoulders in tiny dots of white.

"I'm sure..." He hesitated for a beat, drew in a breath, let it out.  
"I'm sure she's doing everything she can to come home."

A memory came to her with the words, and a smile tugged at her lips,  
a small sound coming from her. He glanced down, clearly confused at  
the shift in her mood. But as the smile dawned, her eyes glistened.  
She squinted against the steady breeze, looked off toward the grey  
sky over the grey stone of the building before her. She began to  
speak.

"I was just remembering something," she said quietly. "Something  
Dana did when she was a child."

Skinner waited, saying nothing.

She pulled her hands from her pockets, folded them on her lap,  
studying them. "Dana was about five years old and my oldest son Bill  
was picking on her once again. I was in the kitchen, and I could hear  
them arguing over....something. I can't recall what it was. He was  
forever teasing her about one thing or another.

"Anyway, I went to the doorway to Dana's bedroom to watch them. They  
couldn't see me standing there. Dana was packing one of her doll's  
suitcases, saying that she was going to run away to get away from  
him. She put two pairs of her little pants in the suitcase and a  
crayon. Bill asked her what the crayon was for, and she said: 'In  
case I want to color.'"

Skinner smiled at that, and Maggie returned it, though a tear made  
its way from the corner of her eye down her cheek.

"So she closed up the suitcase and picked it up and went out the  
front door to the house. I told Bill to keep an eye on Melissa and  
Charlie in the living room and I went outside. She had made it a  
couple of houses away, so I got in the car and backed down the  
driveway, then followed alongside her as she walked down the street.  
I didn't do anything...I just drove alongside her very slowly.

"She was so determined. She kept her eyes forward. I knew she knew I  
was there, but she didn't look at me. She just kept looking ahead of  
her, swinging the suitcase as she walked. I waited. I knew I couldn't  
make her come to me. I knew she had to decide for herself.

"Finally she started to slow, and I could tell she was getting  
upset. It made me ache, watching her like that, knowing how  
conflicted she must have felt, even being as young as she was. Then  
she stopped walking and turned to me. She was crying as she looked at  
me, and I was, too, and I reached over and pushed the door open and  
she came over and got in the car. She crawled up on my lap and I  
drove around the block and we went back home. We never spoke about it  
again."

Skinner looked down at her, swallowed, the stern mask gone.

The tears were flowing freely down her face now, and she reached up  
and brushed at them slowly, carefully.

"I'm ready for my daughter to get in the car, Mr. Skinner," she said  
softly, and her voice broke. She looked down, struggling for control.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and his voice was tender, low. "I wish  
there was something I could tell you, but there's not. I promise you  
I'll let you know as soon as I know something I can share."

She met his gaze again, nodded quickly. "I understand," she replied,  
and she'd regained some measure of composure now, though the sadness  
still gripped her like a fist. She wiped at her face again.

He reached his hand out, and she did as well, clasping his tightly.

A folded scrap of paper in his palm passed to hers, surprising her.

She did not let the feeling reach her face as she drew her hand back  
and put her hands back in her pockets.

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner, for seeing me." She forced a smile.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Scully," he replied formally. He turned and  
walked away.

After a long moment, she rose from the bench, the snow continuing to  
fall, and blended in with the crowd as she made her way back to the  
parking area. Her heart was racing by the time she reached it, and  
she climbed in, fumbled for her keys in her pocket, started the car.

Only then did she reach for the tiny corner of paper. She unfolded  
it in her lap, out of sight of the windows, squinted down at the tiny  
writing.

"Somewhere in the southwest," it said. "Hurt, but is doing better.  
With Mulder. Will have more as I know more."

She studied it for a long moment, the tears starting once again. She  
reached up and covered her mouth with her hand until she'd brought  
them back under control.

Carefully she ripped up the piece of paper, put the remnants back in  
her pocket.

Then she put the car into gear and pulled out into the lunchtime  
traffic, turned the block and headed slowly for home.

 

***********

NOGALES, ARIZONA  
ON THE U.S./MEXICAN BORDER  
1:35 p.m.

 

The falcon was blind.

Tom Lantham could tell that from the moment he looked at it, the  
places where its keen eyes should have been covered over with a thick  
patina of scar, the cups of lids blinking uselessly, instinctively,  
over the ragged holes. It made him ill as he looked at it, both at  
the sight of the eyes and at the thought of such a beautiful animal  
being crippled so badly and then put on display.

A sign, written in English and Spanish, beside it said: "Photo taken  
with bird on your arm, $5," and sure enough Rudy Gray was getting out  
his wallet to pay the kid beside the falcon to have his picture taken  
with the thing.

Lantham cringed, shook his head -- Gray could be such a kid  
sometimes -- and turned his attention to the man who had exited the  
storefront behind the poor creature on its stand. He was wiping his  
hands on an apron, drying them as he looked at Lantham and Gray  
suspiciously. The store was a small cafe that served food to go.

It was hard for Lantham to draw his full attention to the man. The  
drive from Colorado, from Curran, had been a long one, and he was  
already tired. Still, he pulled himself up and focussed on the task  
at hand.

"Mr. Ruiz?" he said as the man approached him. Lantham squinted down  
at the much shorter man as he stopped before him.

"Yes, I'm Pablo Ruiz," the man replied cautiously, his voice heavily  
accented. "You police or something? Cuz I got nothing going on here  
except selling food. You can search the place yourself and see."

Lantham held up a hand. "No, no, Mr. Ruiz, we're not police," he  
said. "We got a tip that you reported having some information about a  
woman who passed through here. You called a number to report it? That  
you found on a flyer?"

Ruiz seemed to think for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "Oh, the  
flyer up at the pawn shop. I almost forgot. S', I saw one of those  
women. Y el nio, too. They came into my shop, oh, I guess six weeks  
ago. Five. Something like that."

"You sure it was them?" Lantham asked. He had to step back as,  
beside him, the bird's wings opened instinctively to balance itself  
as it was placed onto Gray's heavily gloved forearm. The bird make a  
high cry as it settled back down.

"S', pretty sure," Ruiz answered, his hands going to his hips now.  
"She had the same long dark hair as the photo. Hermosa, she was.  
Lovely to look at. Spoke ingls with a strange accent, her and the  
boy."

Lantham nodded. The Polaroid camera clicked and whined as the kid  
snapped the picture. "Yeah, that sounds like them," he said as Gray  
fumbled the bird back onto the stand. It nearly fell as it stumbled  
onto the perch, which Lantham found quite sad.

"Any idea where they were headed?" he asked, forcing his attention  
back on Ruiz. "Did she give anything away about that?"

Ruiz seemed to consider again. "She said something about them having  
a long drive ahead of them. She said it to el muchacho. That he'd  
better eat two of my chalupas because it might be awhile before they  
ate again. I asked where she was heading, you know, just to be  
friendly, and she said they were going down into Mexico to...how do  
you say?...see los lugares interesantes..." He snapped his fingers as  
the word came to him. "To sight-see."

So Mae Curran had crossed the border, Lantham thought, pursed his  
lips. That complicated matters for him, for sure. For one, he didn't  
speak Spanish beyond the very basics (and Gray barely spoke English,  
he mused bitterly), and it would be more difficult to get information  
when they crossed into Mexico. For another, it was a big country. Mae  
and Curran's son could be anywhere at this point, with a five to six  
week head start.

"Where's my hundred bucks?" Ruiz asked expectantly. "The flyer said  
a hundred bucks for informacin."

Gray was waving his Polaroid in the air in front of him, as though  
the action would bring the picture up faster.

Lantham sighed and reached into his wallet, fat with bills. He  
plucked out a crisp $100 bill and handed it to Ruiz, who folded it  
over immediately and stuffed it into his apron pocket, as though he  
didn't want anyone to see him getting it.

"Gracias, Mr. Ruiz," Lantham said, smiled stiffly. "You've been a  
lot of help. If you happen to see her and the boy, or the other woman  
on the flyer, make sure you give another call to that number."

"I will," Ruiz promised. "Pleasure to do business with you," and he  
went back into the store.

Lantham turned to Gray, who was staring proudly at his photo. The  
bird moved uneasily on its perch, its blind eyes blinking.

"You ready?" he asked, and Gray looked up at him.

"Yeah, we going to Mexico?"

Lantham nodded. "Yeah, we are. Make sure your gun's out of sight  
when we go through the border crossing, just in case they stop us. I  
don't think they will, though."

Gray nodded, still mesmerized by his picture. He turned it around to  
show it to Lantham, who put a hand out, pushing the other man's arm  
down.

"Come on, Rudy," he said, put out. "We don't have any time to waste."

Gray followed him obediently through the crowded street, back toward  
the parking lot on the outskirts of town, only a few hundred feet  
from the Mexican border.

 

********

BUCKHORN LAKE  
DANIEL BOONE FOREST  
OUTSIDE BUCKHORN, KENTUCKY  
3:35 p.m.

 

The fish were biting, and for this, at least, Jimmy Shea was pleased.

Just off the side of the boat, a long yellow stringer trailed beside  
the idle, aging motor, swaying back and forth slightly with the small  
ripples of the lake and movement of the fish pinned to it through the  
gills.

He'd caught seven fish so far and had only been out for a few hours,  
just back from Tyner, a town north of Egypt, Kentucky. He'd found one  
person in town who seemed to recognize the photo he'd shown around, a  
manager at a motel on the main street of the town. But the man said  
that he'd seen someone looking like that -- who also had an accent  
like Shea's -- weeks and weeks ago, but not any time recently.

Shea had shown the picture around the whole place after that, which  
didn't take long. It was a small town. He'd come up with nothing  
else.

Curran may have been there, but he'd moved on. Of that Shea was  
certain. He'd called Rutherford and told him just that.

He got a tug on his line and jerked the rod back, felt the fish pull  
hard to the left beneath the water. As he began to reel in, there was  
another sharp jab on the line and then it went slack again.

Shea sighed, reeled the line in, not surprised to find his bait gone.

He reached for the styrofoam cup of night crawlers, bought at the  
shop where he'd rented the shabby boat and motor, and let the hook  
swing into the boat. He dug through the damp dirt, finally pulling  
out a frantic, fat black worm. He impaled it on the hook, twisting it  
around to catch it in several loops on the sharp end.

He did it all by rote, dispassionately, almost with a sigh. As he'd  
done most things in his life. Particularly in the last years.

He remembered a time when he had passion, ire for everything.

James Curran, Owen Curran's father, had been a part of that time.

And for an instant, in the battered boat on the dark lake, he went  
back to it, the memories burned into him like a brand.

He was riding a motorcycle toward the outskirts of Ballycastle, up  
into the sheep pastures and the brilliant green of the hills around  
the sea.

Nineteen-seventy and the IRA was just beginning to organize, each  
town given its own command, its own store of weapons. Discipline of a  
sort. Training. And, since the polarizing events of 1969, purpose.

He was 31, still a young man, part of the Newry unit, in the time  
before its reputation was ruined with its members cracking under  
interrogation, before their damaging signed confessions.

He'd was riding to the home of one of the battalion leaders to see  
about killing a man. There was a UDR officer named Norton who had  
made the very human mistake of developing a routine, and the IRA was  
going to do something about that while they had the chance.

Shea had developed a reputation as being the best shot in the  
northern units. That's why he'd been called for the task.

He remembered the house on the hillside, a lovely place, and showing  
a man who had some means. The owner was standing beside a low wall  
made of stone, shuffling bags of feed from the back of a small truck.  
A young boy stood beside him wearing high boots, a white fisherman's  
sweater with simple pants. The man himself was dressed similarly, a  
cap on his head. They both turned as the motorcycle came up the long  
road to the house, even the boy seeming to watch his approach with  
care.

He pulled up beside them, removed his helmet as the man came  
forward. "Jimmy Shea?" the other man asked, brushing off his hands.

"Aye, I'm Shea. James Curran?"

The man nodded. The boy, who couldn't be more than five, had taken  
up a place behind his father's leg, looking at Shea with his wide  
blue eyes. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and spiked a bit  
on top.

"And who do we have here?" Shea said, putting his helmet on the seat  
of the cycle and turning again, crouching down with his hands on his  
knees. The child smiled shyly, looked away toward the bike.

"Ah, this is my youngest, Owen," Curran said proudly, putting a hand  
on Owen's head, palming his small skull. Shea smiled to him, but Owen  
kept looking at the bike, a finger in his mouth.

"You like the motorcycle, do you then?" Shea asked, still smiling  
widely. "You come over here to me I'll put you up on the seat. How's  
that?"

Owen curled around his father's leg a bit more, smiling wider now.

"Come on," Shea prodded, holding his arms out in a welcoming  
gesture. Curran watched Shea, amused.

"Go on, Owen. He won't bite."

Finally, the boy came forward, and Shea reached out to take him in  
his arms, lifting up and bracing him with one arm while he moved the  
helmet with the other. Then he sat Owen down on the seat, who leaned  
forward, reaching for the handlebars, clearly pleased.

"What do you think of that, eh?" Shea said. "She's a nice one, isn't  
she?"

The boy nodded. "But where do you keep your gun?" he asked, his  
voice high and light.

Shea was taken back a bit by the question. "My gun? What do you know  
about that?" He laughed a touch nervously.

James Curran crossed his arms over his chest, smiled even more  
proudly.

"Don't you use your gun when you ride your motorcycle?" Owen asked,  
looking back at Shea. Shea looked back, silent for a beat.

"Aye, sometimes I do," he said finally, his voice betraying his  
surprise.

He wondered about the boy then, about his father. It was common  
knowledge in the North that motorcycles and assassins went together,  
but he didn't expect a boy of Owen's age to know that.

Now Curran laughed heartily, came forward and plucked his son off  
the motorcycle, setting him on his feet. "Go on, Owen. Go find your  
mother. Mr. Shea and I have some business to discuss."

"All right, Daddy," the boy said softly, and looked up at Shea,  
smiling again. Then he scuttled off toward the house.

"Let's take a walk, Jimmy," Curran said, putting his arm around  
Shea's shoulder and steering him toward the pasture.

Shea turned and went along with him, into the fields of green.

Now he looked out over the lake, at the trees lining the banks in  
the distance. He shook his head, his gaze frozen on that distance for  
a moment. Then, sighing, he swung the line out, cast it into the  
water, and waited for the fish to come.

 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 6a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6b.

Disclaimers in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6b.

********

WHISTLE STOP INN  
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA  
11:17 p.m.

 

The creature lumbered through the clearing, its arms swinging in  
long arcs beside its body, its strides long, unhurried. It was tall,  
covered with dark hair. From the distance, its features were  
difficult to make out, though as it turned slightly and looked back  
over its shoulder, as though aware it were being watched, a pair of  
dark eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows, its gait quickening as  
it headed for the safety of the treeline.

"Mulder."

A man's voice floated into the room. "Recently, a group of  
scientists led by Dr. Gene Robinson at the University of Oregon were  
involved in an experiment to confirm the existence of the creature. A  
mesh bag filled with fruit was placed in the low branches of a tree  
around the area where it had been sighted.

"As morning came the following day, Dr. Robinson was able to make  
plaster casts of both a set of footprints made as the creature  
approached the tree, and also a right buttock print in the ground at  
the base of the trunk where the creature had apparently sat down to  
consume the bait."

"Mulder, don't start."

"Come on, Scully, listen to this."

Gene Robinson, as the caption on the screen identified him, held up  
a plaster casting the size of a dinner plate, pointing to a series of  
marks on it. "This print can be authenticated on the basis of its  
hair patterns," the man said. "As you can see, the hair follows an  
anatomically correct pattern of growth..."

Scully tuned it out now, though she could tell from how still Mulder  
was against her in the bed, how his hand was poised in midair with  
the remote, that he was enthralled. As usual.

"It really does follow the correct pattern," Mulder said, and she  
knew that convicted tone all too well. "See how you can see the hair  
moving away from the center area --"

"Mulder, I'm not going to do this tonight," she said, though she  
rubbed her cheek against the soft material of his shirt at the crook  
of his arm as she said it, nuzzling into him like a cat, her eyes  
closing.

"Do what?" he asked, seemingly genuinely perplexed.

She smiled, her eyes staying closed, her arm gripping around his  
chest a little tighter, her leg sliding a little higher on his thigh.  
When she spoke, her voice was soft, drawled with impending sleep.

"Oh, argue with you about the veracity of hair patterns on a  
buttprint of a man in a rented gorilla suit who has a taste for  
mangos so that you can then launch into a treatise about the number  
of Bigfoot sightings--"

He laughed, his chest vibrating beneath her arm.

"A 'buttprint?'" he asked. "Is that the scientific term, Dr. Scully?  
Because if we're going to be scientifically correct about this, I  
believe it's called an 'assprint.'"

A laugh bubbled up from her and she opened her eyes, leaned up a  
little to look in his eyes. They were soft, looking velvet in the  
shadows. The only light was from the lamp on the night table on his  
side of the bed, and it threw his face into chiaroscuro relief. Two  
pints of ice cream -- Phish Food and Peanut Butter Cup -- sat melting  
beneath the lamp, plastic spoons protruding from their edges.

He was smiling at her as he reached over and curved her hair around  
her ear.

Something seemed to hang in the air for a moment over them,  
something warm and tender and ultimately welcome. Scully breathed it  
in as she looked at him, feeling his fingers caress her lobe softly,  
the sensitive skin beneath it.

Yesterday at Wupatki, she had felt as desolate as the stones  
surrounding her. Trying to think of Fagan, trying to feel him, had  
tired her, made her weary and lost. Sitting with Mulder on the ledge  
overlooking the mesa and the grey sky, she'd found her way back  
again, let the desolation move through her, as the heavy clouds had  
moved over the dark ruins behind them.

She'd stroked his wrist and settled back into herself as best she  
could, something growing quiet in her, quiet as the snow.

They'd gone back to the motel and eaten a simple dinner. Baked  
chicken. Some apples. Some cheese. As she stood before the small  
stove, Mulder quartering the green apples behind her, she'd felt  
something in her unknot, the memory of them in her kitchen cooking  
together, the sound of heavy plates on the wooden table, coming back  
to her. The sound of empty wine glasses clinking in Mulder's hand as  
they went to the couch afterward.

She'd slept soundly last night, the soundest sleep in weeks, spared  
from the dreaming.

The morning brought sleeping in, a late breakfast at a local diner.  
She'd spent the afternoon dozing, sometimes curled against him. Other  
times, he'd risen, reading the newspaper he'd bought from a machine  
at the diner or flipping channels from the foot of the bed as she  
slept.

They'd spoken little, but the silence was not unwelcome. There was  
an ease to it, something companionable in it. As though, for a little  
while, words had become unnecessary.

At one point, lying against him, his breathing deep and steady, his  
eyes fluttering beneath his lids as he dreamed, she remembered lazy  
days in his bed, or hers, rousing to find his mouth, his hands,  
moving over her body. The warm weight of the afternoons of lovemaking  
had settled over her as she watched him, held him, while he slept.

"You're only saying you don't want to argue about this Bigfoot thing  
because you know I'll end up being right," he said finally, breaking  
her thoughts.

She rolled her eyes, slapped him lightly on the stomach, causing him  
to suck in, a startled "oh!" coming from him as his hand left her ear  
and went to his stomach as though she'd mortally wounded him.

He laughed, and so did she, the sound coming from her fast and  
light, like sparrows.

She looked deeply at him. There was something so familiar to all  
this. The banter over unlikely things. The closeness to him. The  
teasing, tender light in his eyes as he looked at her.

It was as though they had finally managed to leave it all behind.

She smiled at the thought, a low heat rushing through her.

Maybe things could be the same after all.

Thinking this, she rolled over on top of him, her hands on either  
side of his head as his hands went instinctively around her, resting  
on the small of her back.

He adjusted his head on the pillow so that their faces were almost  
touching. She could feel his slow, warm breath on her face as his  
fingers traced small shapes in the material of her white pajama top.

"I mean, come on. When have I not been right?" His voice was just  
above a whisper, and he smiled softly.

His words were meant to continue his tease, but the sentiment did  
not reach his tone. The mischief had gone from his eyes. She rubbed  
her thumbs over his bearded cheeks as she watched his mood shift. He  
was very still beneath her.

The playful feeling had gone from her, as well, the smile leaving  
her face. Keeping her eyes open, she closed the few inches between  
them and touched her lips to his, pulling away almost immediately,  
though she did not withdraw any further than she had been before.

His hands moved from her back to cradle her waist, his grip gentle  
and sure.

"What was that for?" he whispered.

She could do nothing but shake her head, her lips curling as she  
leaned in and kissed him again, longer this time. She opened her  
mouth and pulled his bottom lip in, tugging gently. His hands slid up  
her back and a small sound came from his throat.

Their lips moved over each other's for a long moment. Then she broke  
the contact and pressed her lips to his throat, her hand pushing at  
his shirt.

"Take this off." She breathed it against his skin, felt him shiver.

Then she placed her knees on either side of his hips and leaned up,  
resting on his thighs as he pulled the shirt up over his head,  
tossing it on the floor beside the bed, looking up at her with his  
smokey eyes. His hands came to rest on her thighs, holding still  
there.

She could sense his caution. Perhaps that was the beginning of it,  
the feeling that sprouted in her. Just the hint of it sent her into a  
fine tremor, her breath quivering as she let out a long exhale,  
trying to calm herself, soothe.

She pushed it all down, willing it away.

As if to prove she had vanquished it, she reached for the buttons of  
her top, pushing the top white button through its white hole. She saw  
him swallow, and then found herself looking down shyly, unable to  
meet his intense gaze. She watched her fingers work the buttons as  
though she'd never touched them before. She did not push the sides of  
the shirt apart.

As she undid the last button, her hands went to his belly, her  
thumbs moving over the faint line of hair at his navel. She still  
could not meet his eyes, and her faint trembling increased.

His hands went to her top, fingering the sides. With a slow motion,  
he pushed them apart, revealing her body. She arched her back as he  
smoothed the top off her shoulders, down to the center of her back.  
Her nipples hardened in the chill of the room and under the burn of  
his gaze. She slid her arms out of the sleeves, laying the shirt down  
beside them on the rumpled bed.

Now she draped herself down over him, her arms going around his neck  
as her breasts pressed against his body. She buried her face against  
his throat, beneath the coarse hair of his beard.

He was still, except for his hands, which were reading the bumps of  
her ribs on her back as though memorizing her. She felt his breath  
deepen, quicken. She felt him hard against her belly.

The fear came up her like a current at the feel of him.

She shook against him, her eyes stinging.

No...

Her mind whispered the word to her, but she did not listen.

His hands curved around her sides to her breasts, and she arched her  
back to allow him to cup them, his palms hot against her skin. His  
lips were on her hair, his cheek rubbing against her, urging her face  
up to his. His hands kneaded softly as she looked up, her eyes  
clenched closed against the sight of him.

His mouth closed over hers and she struggled to meet him, her hands  
gripping his hair in her fists.

No.

Her mind said it again, louder this time, with more finality.

(Hands on her back, rough. Pain. Pain piercing her with the shame of  
it.)

She felt herself flush all over, turned her face away from him,  
breaking her contact with his mouth.

"No..." She said it out loud this time, to herself, to the terror  
gripping her. To him. She felt him freeze beneath her, his hands  
stilling instantly.

"It's all right," he whispered. "We don't have to do this."

The first sob hitched her breath, nearly choking her. She pulled her  
arms from around his neck as his hands went around her back, her  
hands going to cover her mouth, her elbows jutting into his belly.  
Her shaking was uncontrollable now, a cry crawling up her throat. It  
sounded like an animal, or a terrified child.

She hated it.

Hated herself.

Fury ignited in her.

Fury and shame.

"Scully..."

She shook her head, pulled away from him quickly, gracelessly. Some  
dim part of her wondered if she might have hurt him as she pushed  
herself off of his body, ending up on her side beside him. Her hands  
scrambled to her top, clutching it to her, hiding her breasts, as she  
rolled again to the edge of the bed, facing away from him now, her  
legs curling up until her thighs touched her belly.

Another sob wracked her. She jerked as though struck.

She could feel him moving up behind her, shifting toward her. His  
hand brushed her shoulder.

"Scully, it's all right," he soothed, but there was something very  
afraid in his voice, almost desperate, as though he didn't even  
believe himself.

She didn't believe him, either.

As his fingers curled over the bone of her shoulder, she jerked away  
from him.

"Don't," she bit out between the wracking. She couldn't breathe.  
"Don't. Please."

"Scully, don't push me away. I want to help. Let me help you--" His  
hand brushed her bare back again.

"DON'T!" Her voice rose to near shouting. "Don't touch me!"

His hand left her instantly, but she could feel it hovering over  
her. She could tell from his breathing, from the trembling of his  
voice as he'd spoken to her, that he was crying, as well.

Guilt ran through her now, as well. It was too much. The loathing.  
It was all too much.

"Scully," he tried again. A plea.

Something in her hardened, froze over. She heaved in a deep breath,  
her eyes closing tight, all of her closing tight.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, heard his breath catch at the venom  
\-- borne of shame -- in her voice, felt the weight of his stunned  
silence.

He was still for a long moment.

"Please," she said again, but there was nothing kind or imploring in  
the word this time.

Slowly he shifted, withdrawing across the bed. She heard him reach  
down and gather up his shirt, felt him shift as he sat on the edge of  
the bed, the sound of cloth over skin as he pulled the shirt over his  
head.

He sat there for a long while. She could hear his breath shaking in  
and out of him, muffled by his hands. She covered her face, tears  
streaming, though her face was stone.

Then, finally, the light flicked off. She heard him slipping beneath  
the covers, settling down far away from her.

They lay there in the dark, the television flickering, talking to no  
one, the night closing in, filling the space in the bed that  
stretched out between them.

 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 6b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7a.

*******

FBI HEADQUARTERS  
WASHINGTON D.C.  
MARCH 23  
9:14 a.m.

 

Two chairs sat in front of Skinner's desk. They had been there for  
years, he knew, but for some reason, today he couldn't take his eyes  
off of them.

As he moved around the room, drifted in and out to various offices  
and then returned to his desk, he found his eyes drawn to the chairs,  
struck by their emptiness and the quiet of the room.

Finally, finding himself looking at them again when he was supposed  
to be reviewing the expense report in front of him, he leaned back in  
the chair and dropped the pen. His glasses soon followed. He rubbed  
his eyes roughly, heaved out a frustrated sigh.

His meeting with Margaret Scully the day before had left him feeling  
hollow, his guilt about the woman's worry and grief over her  
daughter's absence filling him instead. Passing her the note had done  
little to alleviate that guilt, though he did at least feel better  
knowing that Mrs. Scully now knew something about her daughter's  
whereabouts and condition.

He'd told her the truth. Somebody needed to do that.

He'd returned to the office yesterday morning deflated, lost in the  
immensity of the task at hand.

The weekly phone calls to Mulder made him feel worse. His gut ached  
every time he had to tell Mulder that he and Scully needed to stay  
out, keep running. He felt like the constant bringer of bad news and  
felt completely useless. Especially in the face of Mulder's  
disappointed, weary tone when he told them to stay away, when he  
heard the cagey responses Mulder gave to his inquiries about Scully's  
well-being.

He stewed in those feelings the entire afternoon, reviewing what  
he'd done so far.

He'd been trying to look at the big picture for weeks now, taking  
his case to whoever would listen to him, doing everything he could as  
the Assistant Director of the FBI.

Then, standing in front of the windows in his office, looking down  
on the maddeningly normal world bustling below him, he'd started to  
wonder if he was doing this all wrong. He stopped thinking like an  
Assistant Director. It was getting him nowhere, and was actually  
bringing more attention to *him*, attention he didn't need if he was  
going to continue his covert contact with his agents.

Instead, standing there yesterday in the sunlight struggling to come  
through the clouds that had brought the unseasonable snow, he started  
thinking like an agent again, about what he'd been taught in the  
Academy all those years ago. The rules of investigating.

It was in the simple details, taken one at a time and examined  
carefully, patiently, that one solved a case. Not what he'd been  
doing -- standing back with this huge scenario in front of him, a  
picture made up of puzzle pieces that seemed to go together but which  
revealed a picture that he knew to be wrong.

The picture Padden had made.

And everyone else was seeing that same picture as well. Ashcroft.  
The head of the FBI and CIA. Padden had made sure that every avenue  
was essentially cut off with the damaging case against Mulder, a case  
made of bits of evidence turned the way Padden liked them to be  
turned.

There was nowhere left to go.

So he returned to an agent's thinking before he'd left that  
afternoon. He would start again on all this. He would take the pieces  
that Padden had used so deftly to frame Mulder and look at them for  
himself.

He started at the beginning, with the police report from the crime  
scene at Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond. He'd had a police  
contact at the D.C. Metro Police order it for him from Richmond so  
that his name would not be attached to it, just in case Padden was  
monitoring his activities or the report itself.

He'd seen most of it already, of course. The initial reports right  
after the body had been discovered in the apartment, the forensic  
evidence on the bullet that had killed Fagan. The fingerprinting. The  
blood match on Scully and Fagan throughout the apartment, which still  
made him wince when he thought about it.

There had been so much blood. From both of them.

He knew that more evidence would have come through, things that  
would have taken more time but which would do nothing but add to the  
picture he knew had happened in that apartment.

He replaced his glasses, stood and went to the window again,  
watching the traffic, the cityscape, once again. Today he found it  
soothing, and breathed it all in, calming himself. He didn't resent  
the normal course of other people's lives. Instead, he found hope in  
it.

When the knock came at the door, he was prepared.

"Come," he called, and Kimberly opened the door, a fat envelope from  
FedEx in her hand.

"There's a package for you, sir," she said as she approached. He  
reached out and took it from her. He thanked her and she withdrew,  
closing the door behind her.

He went to the desk, placed the package in front of him. Clearing  
his mind so that he could look at the contents with fresh eyes, he  
tore into the envelope, pulled out the stack of folders, removed  
their rubber bands.

There were pictures of blood smears going down the corridor of an  
apartment, a knife stained with it, a small pool near the edge of a  
worn rug. A man's body, shot through the head, a wound to the face.

It had been a hell of a fight, he thought. He was simultaneously  
proud of Scully for surviving and pained for what she had endured.

He picked up the first folder, opened it, scanning the report. It  
was the most recent information on the case, the forensic evidence  
that had come in later, some of it only within the last month. He  
hadn't seen a lot of this, and began reading intently.

Time crawled by as he lost himself in numbers, notes.

About halfway down the fifth page, tapping his pen absently as he  
took in the figures of hair samples, fiber samples, additional  
fingerprints, a word leapt out at him.

"Semen."

Every muscle in his body went taut. His hand unconsciously went to  
his forehead, cupping it in his large palm.

"Location: Living room, 7 feet 3 inches from front door. Four-point-  
five inches from rug edge. Non-secretor. DNA matches victim, John  
Brian Fagan. Sample mixed with blood, type A+. Blood sample DNA  
match: Dana Katherine Scully. Probable location of sexual  
assault/rape."

Skinner clenched his eyes closed. The hand on his forehead curled  
into a fist and dropped down onto the pile of reports. Hard.

"Oh Jesus."

He shook his head as he said it. He leaned down and cradled his head  
in his hands, his eyes remaining closed. Pulling in a deep breath, he  
forced the anger and anguish down as best he could.

It sickened him to think what she'd gone through, what she was  
continuing to go through.

He took some comfort in the fact that Mulder was a psychologist, but  
he also knew that there was little chance of her discussing the  
situation in any depth, even with Mulder. He'd watched her hide any  
sign of emotional vulnerability for as long as he'd known her. He  
didn't think this would be any different. In fact, she might guard  
her feelings surrounding any such attack even more closely because of  
the personal nature of it.

But Mulder *did* know about it. He was certain of that. It explained  
Mulder's reticence about discussing Scully's condition, answered  
Skinner's nagging questions about what the other man was withholding  
about her. What he was protecting.

God, and Padden probably knew about this, too. For all he knew, the  
entire task force knew. He hated the thought of Scully's private  
anguish, the horrible violation of her, possibly being so public.

Fuck....

Skinner sat rooted in place for a minute, looking down at the  
report, his mind running through his options. He had to get her in,  
and as fast as he could.

He would suggest to Mulder that they split up, that Scully come in.  
That was it. He'd do everything he could to protect her with his own  
resources at the FBI. He knew it was risky, but he had to get her in  
where she could get help. He needed to get her to counselors.  
Doctors. Her mother. Someone.

Even as he thought these things, he knew how doomed the idea was. It  
would be impossible to separate them. Neither of them would agree to  
that. Neither of them would leave the other without protection, no  
matter what personal circumstances were going on. He'd watched them  
work this way for years.

They had -- and would always have -- the other's back.

The only way to get her in would be to clear Mulder's name and catch  
Curran so she wouldn't need to protect Mulder and she herself would  
no longer be in danger. He needed to accomplish those two tasks as  
quickly as possible.

Sighing, he came to the realization that there was no way to do that  
on his own. He didn't have the resources, the contacts, the access.

He needed someone who did.

He needed Granger.

Though Skinner didn't feel he could completely trust the young agent  
because of the position Granger was in with Padden, he had enough  
evidence of Granger being on Mulder's side to think that he might be  
able to get his help in clearing Mulder's name. Granger had alluded  
to that himself in his office just a few days before.

Plus, he'd lied to Padden in the hospital room all those months ago  
about not knowing where Mulder was when he'd just been talking to him  
on the phone. He'd helped Mulder with the case in Richmond, despite  
Padden's warnings for him not to.

It was going to take a leap of faith, Skinner thought, his hands  
digging deep in his pockets. Time was ticking away. There was no more  
of it to waste.

He reached for his cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket,  
which was draped across the back of his chair. He'd long since  
decided the office phone couldn't be trusted. Holding it, he pressed  
the intercom button for Kimberly.

"Yes, sir?" she responded immediately.

"Kimberly, I need you to find a number for me. The cell phone number  
for Agent Paul Granger at the CIA."

"I'll get right on that, sir."

He thanked her and the light went off.

The reports stared up at him from the desk, and he couldn't face  
anymore of it. Not yet.

So he went to the window once again, watched a plane make its way  
across the sky, a trail of white motion stretching out behind it.

His body was poised to *do* something. He was taut with the need to  
move. Instead he stood rooted in place, perfectly still. He pulled in  
a deep breath, let it out, and did something he was not good at  
doing.

He waited.

 

********

 

LIBERTY PAWN SHOP  
FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA  
2:33 p.m.

Beneath the classic three-balls-suspended-on-an-arch that symbolized  
a pawn shop was a neon outline of the Liberty Bell, complete with a  
neon crack that flickered slightly in the afternoon light. Beneath  
that, and what Mulder was really interested in, was the familiar  
yellow of a Western Union sign, along with a sign advertising that  
checks were cashed on the premises, "no ID required."

Just the kind of place he needed, he mused bitterly. The underbelly  
of society that he and Scully had begun to inhabit was starting to  
rub off on him. He was actually happy when he found a place that  
advertised things like this. It meant that anonymity was the order of  
the day, their faces all but ignored as they went about their  
business.

Scully was looking in the window at a row of musical instruments,  
the remnants of what looked like a salsa band. A golden trumpet  
hanging from its curve. A wide Mexican guitar. Prices hung like toe  
tags from both of them.

She was staring intently. Quiet. Still. He would have given anything  
to have known what she was thinking, what she'd been thinking all  
day. Except for responding to basically "yes" and "no" questions, she  
hadn't spoken to him at all, the time on the road oppressive and  
filling him with a tension that he'd yet to experience, even with all  
these weeks of running. He hadn't thought a new level of it possible.

But something had changed between them since last night. A shift  
into a darker, more distant place. It was as if she had grown smaller  
and smaller within her body overnight and somehow disappeared  
completely, leaving behind this silent shell, a husk of the woman he  
knew.

It filled him with a nameless dread.

The sidewalk was fairly crowded with people, tourists on their  
stopovers either to or from the Canyon. He and Scully blended in well  
\- Scully in her jeans and white t-shirt, the black baseball cap  
firmly in place to hide her hair, a ponytail protruding from the  
back, him in his battered jeans and black t-shirt and denim jacket.  
They looked like a couple of ecotourists camping their way across the  
state, like a dozen other people who passed them on the sidewalk. The  
anonymity of the street calmed him some, made him feel strangely  
normal for a moment.

He went to her at the window and stood behind her. He was careful  
not to touch her or stand too close. She'd kept her distance from him  
all day, dressing in the bathroom after her shower. When he'd touched  
her shoulder as they walked out the door of the motel, he'd felt her  
tense, and would not make the same mistake again.

"You wanna pick up a guitar for the road?" he asked lightly, teasing  
as best he could.

No reaction. She turned to him and her eyes were far away and dull.  
Tired beyond anything he'd seen from her. She shook her head, nodded  
toward the door.

"All right," he replied to her unspoken request that they hurry this  
along, though how she could be looking forward to the silence of the  
truck again was beyond him.

The bell jingled on the door as they entered, Scully following a few  
feet behind Mulder. They walked past the glass counters filled with  
wedding bands, gold chains, past the lines of guitars dangling by  
their necks from the walls. At the back there was a counter with the  
Western Union sign on its front. They headed for it.

A tall, muscular man was standing there, his gut balanced on the low  
counter. His arms were splayed out to the sides and he leaned forward  
leisurely, eyeing the two of them as they approached. Mulder smiled  
amiably.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, in the exact bored tone that Mulder  
had expected from him.

"Yes," he replied, stepping up the counter. Scully had stopped just  
behind him, eyeing the watches in one of the displays. "We've had  
some money wired to us, under the name Tim Garrett."

The man went to the computer on the counter's edge, tapped on a few  
keys and studied the display.

"Two thousand dollars?" he asked, still bored.

"Yes," Mulder replied, hiding his surprise. The Gunmen must be  
hacking into someone's account to get that kind of money this time.  
He was pleased, though. They were running dangerously short on funds.

Without being asked, Mulder pulled out his wallet and pushed his  
fake Tennessee driver's license across the counter. The man took it,  
glanced at the picture, at Mulder's face, then wrote a few things  
down on a form he pulled from a stack beside the computer. Then he  
pushed it back across.

"I've got to get the money out of the safe," he said, and Mulder  
watched his eyes move over Scully. And he wasn't looking at her face.  
She didn't seem to be aware of it, but it pissed Mulder off. He  
cleared his throat to get the man's attention, and when he had it, he  
bared his teeth in an overly friendly - and warning -- smile, nodded  
toward the back.

"Be right back," the man said flatly, looking Mulder up and down  
now, as though sizing him up for a fight. Then he withdrew.

Mulder turned to Scully then, at what had drawn her attention. There  
were a several dozen very nice watches beneath the glass, and Scully  
was looking alternately at them and at the Omega she wore on her  
wrist. Then, seeming to come decision, she reached down and took the  
watch off, laid it flat on the counter.

"Your mother gave you that," he said softly. "You don't need to-"

"It doesn't matter," she said, monotone, still staring down at the  
watches. "We need the money."

"But the guys have sent us more this time, enough to last until-"

Now she did turn to him with those same dull, tired eyes. "Until  
when? We're out of this? I don't think so."

He swallowed at her tone, taken aback. There was something angry and  
hopeless in it. As though she'd resigned herself to a life on the run  
with him for the rest of her life. He didn't like her feeling that  
way.

Carefully, he lay his hand next to hers on the counter, still not  
touching her.

"We're going to get out of this," he said firmly. "Soon. This isn't  
going to go on forever."

He had to believe that. To think otherwise - as he sometimes did in  
his most pessimistic moments - would mean taking on his guilt at his  
part in putting her in this position in the first place. And that was  
more than he could handle along with everything else.

As if in answer to those thoughts, she returned her left hand to the  
counter as though bracing herself, the arm trembling slightly, her  
thumb shaking against the glass. He wondered for a moment if she'd  
raised the hand on purpose, to remind him that some of this very well  
might go on forever. That some of it couldn't be run from at all.

"Don't sell your watch, Scully," he murmured, his voice pitched low  
enough that no one could hear him speak her real name. "I think  
you'll regret it later."

"I'll get another one," she responded, her voice miles away. She  
wasn't looking at him again, which frustrated him.

"But why now?" he persisted.

She turned her face a fraction away, as if she were putting him out  
of her sight and out of her mind. For a few seconds, he thought she  
might ignore the question entirely.

"Why not."

It was said with finality, bitterly. The tone surprised him again.

The man returned from the back and Mulder reluctantly turned his  
attention to the Western Union countertop, stepping away from Scully.

"There you go, Mr. Garrett," he said, and laid a stack of bills on  
the counter. "Now if you'll just fill out this information here on  
this form for me and sign it, we'll have you all fixed up."

Mulder did as he was told, filling in a dummy address, telephone  
number. He wrote down the name that Frohike was using to send the  
money this time: Kurt Affair. He almost cracked a smile at that. Then  
he signed his false name to the receipt and pocketed the money.

Meanwhile, the man was looking at Scully, at the watch on the  
counter.

"You selling something, miss?" he asked, and Scully looked up at  
him, nodded. He came around the counter to where she was standing,  
picked up the watch and studied it, fingering the fine, smooth links  
in the band.

"Omega," he said approvingly. "Nice."

She nodded, all but ignoring him. "How much?"

He seemed to consider for a moment, checking the crystal for  
scratches, turning the beautiful watch over in his hands. "I'll give  
you $150 for it."

Mulder balked. "What?" he began, standing next to Scully now. "That  
watch is worth-"

"That will be fine," she replied firmly, cutting him off. Mulder  
pulled in a breath, shook his head, but remained silent. The man  
looked from one of them to the other, his eyes studying them both, as  
though curious as to whether he was going to get a bit of fun and get  
to watch a spat.

His eyes remained on Scully's face for a few seconds too long, his  
face turning to the side as he looked at her.

Mulder leaned in again, close to her but not touching her. He didn't  
like anyone looking at her like that, like she was this thing to be  
admired. The rape had made him more aware of men's reactions to her,  
and he had to say that for the most part, he didn't like those  
reactions one bit.

The man took the hint and broke his gaze, then went to the register  
and pulled out the money. He returned and laid the hundred- and fifty-  
dollar bills in front of her. She took them without a word and  
stuffed them in her pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said, putting the watch  
in the counter display.

Mulder met his eyes as he finished lining it up with the rest of  
them. The man smiled back, then, as though deciding Mulder wasn't  
worth it, he returned to the rear of the shop, disappearing into the  
back room.

Scully had already headed for the door and Mulder had to hurry to  
catch up with her as she returned to the sidewalk, walking briskly  
toward where the truck was parked. He caught up with her quickly, his  
long strides matching her short ones as she stared ahead of her.

"Scully."

"I don't want to talk about it, Mulder," she said softly. "Let's  
just go."

He bit back his reply, frustrated. He'd never seen her like this  
before, so remote. She'd never pulled away like this. Not to this  
extent. It was like being with a stranger.

They reached the truck, parked just up from the shop on the side of  
the street, and she stopped at the driver's door, reached her hand  
out for the keys. "I'd like to drive for a while," she said.

He nodded, dug in his pockets for them and handed them to her. "All  
right. Whatever you want."

She didn't look at him as she took them, unlocked the door and  
climbed into the truck, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk.  
She adjusted the seat to as far forward as it would go, then swung  
the heavy door closed, started up the huge engine with a cough and a  
rumble.

With the sound, he was struck out of his frozen place. He hurried  
around the car, some part of him actually afraid that she might just  
leave without him.

 

**

Back in the Liberty Pawn, the man stood before the bulletin board  
above the fax machine. Over it, an eagle on a poster, its wings  
spread wide over a set of crossed rifles, an American flag behind it.

The secret seal for the Sons of Liberty, from which the man had  
coined the shop's name.

On the bulletin board, a grainy fax printout. Two pictures. A dark-  
haired woman and a boy, and a single shot of another woman.

The woman who'd just been in the shop, selling her expensive watch  
for a price that showed a level of desperation he'd grown accustomed  
to from people on the run.

He went back into the shop, out onto the street. He stood there for  
a moment, looking up and down the sidewalk.

Then he saw her in a truck going slowly by, her head and shoulder  
peeking above the battered door, the man with her -- Tim Garrett,  
he'd said his name was -- in the passenger seat, his face turned  
away.

The man watched the old Ford Bronco nudge forward as the light at  
the end of the street turned green, stepped out between two parked  
cars to get a look at the license plate as the blue truck crept away.

Tennessee. RKL-319.

He went back into the shop quickly, went back into the back room to  
the phone beside the fax machine. He picked up the receiver and  
dialed.

 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 7a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7b.

**********

THE TRADING POST  
TUBA CITY, ARIZONA  
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION  
4:35 p.m.

 

Scully sat in the driver's seat, her hands on the steering wheel,  
precisely where they'd been when she'd stopped the truck beside the  
gas pumps 10 minutes ago.

She stared forward, her eyes following an elderly Navajo man being  
helped into the store by two younger women. He walked slowly, placing  
his feet with care, and the women were speaking softly to him as they  
walked.

The man had to be in his 90s, Scully thought. The women were most  
likely his granddaughters, taking the man out to do his shopping at  
the only store she'd seen in a hundred miles.

She glanced in the side view mirror, saw Mulder leaned against the  
truck, one hand on the pump, the other his pocket. Though she could  
not see his eyes behind his sunglasses, she could tell he was looking  
down at the ground, his expression troubled.

She looked away, returning her gaze to the people milling in and out  
of the store, a mixture of tourists and Navajos, the parking lot  
crowded with cars and RVs. She couldn't look at him for too long. She  
couldn't take watching the distance she'd placed between them take  
its toll.

Lying in bed just before dawn, she'd made her decision that the  
distance was the lesser of the ways that she could hurt him. Trying  
to be close to him seemed to force her own troubles on him, and she  
no longer wanted to do that. It was better that they have the space,  
she'd decided. That way he wouldn't feel what she was feeling. If she  
spared him that, she wouldn't have to watch his pain at what had  
happened to her, what she'd become, any more than she had already.

Glancing back at him once again, at the grim set of his face, she  
wondered about her decision. But even as she doubted herself for an  
instant, the memory of last night stabbed at her, her face flushing  
with shame.

God, how she'd wanted to just be able to just be herself with him  
again. To meld into him, to become part of him.

But that wasn't going to happen. Her face hardened a bit more as she  
resigned herself to that conclusion.

She would not make that mistake again.

And as far as being herself with him? she thought bitterly. The  
person she was before was gone. She didn't know who she was any more.

And a part of her was ceasing to care if she ever found out again.

She took her sunglasses off, resolved to her silence, and placed  
them on the seat beside her, then opened the door to the truck and  
climbed down. Mulder forced a smile at her, but it was small and  
nervous.

"I'll be right back," she said, averting her eyes. "I'll get us  
something to drink." It was the longest sentence she'd spoken to him  
since they'd left Flagstaff.

"All right," he replied quietly, still pumping the gas.

She went up the stairs to the store, her gait stiff. She entered,  
pausing at the door to take in the place. Groceries. Garish souvenirs  
and postcards. A post office window in the corner. A short-order  
restaurant fronted by a long counter with wooden stools. People sat  
talking over their greasy meals. A knot of tourists sat at one end, a  
child playing with a rubber tomahawk that dangled red and blue  
feathers.

The store was clearly the hub of the tiny town, intended to offer  
everything for both those who lived there and those passing through.  
People were everywhere. It made Scully nervous, and she hurried to  
the cashier, leaning in so that the woman could hear her over the din.

"Where are your restrooms?" she asked.

The woman looked at her, then reached down and pulled up a large key  
that was connected by a chain to a large brick. The thing must have  
weighed five pounds.

"People keep running off with it," the woman said, seeing Scully  
eyeing the thing. "We figure they'll notice if they walk off with  
that in their pocket." She smiled and her own joke. "They're around  
the side. Outside."

Scully thanked her and hefted the brick, going back out the front,  
making her way to the detached smaller building with its signs for  
women and men. She noticed Mulder paying the attendant, talking to  
him, no doubt asking if there were any places to stay nearby. They  
hadn't seen a motel since they'd entered the reservation.

Reaching the door, she held the brick in her shaking hand as the  
other slid the key in and opened the door. She closed the door behind  
her.

After, she splashed water onto her face, rubbing at her eyes. She  
pulled out a paper towel and began drying herself off, her gaze drawn  
to her reflection in the dim florescent light.

A woman's gaunt face stared back her. Tired eyes, dark circles  
beneath them.

She held still as she looked at herself. She felt tears burn her  
eyes, and blinked them fiercely away.

Finally, she picked up the brick, clamping down her iron control  
once again, and opened the door, squinting her eyes against the  
light.

A hand clamped down on her upper arm, yanked her hard to the right.

She was just about to scream when the man caught her around the  
throat with his forearm and covered her mouth with his other hand,  
jerking her head back hard. She moaned in pain instead.

"Keep quiet now," the man said, his voice low and threatening.  
"Don't make me hurt you any more than I have to."

There was a car parked nearby, a driver in it, another man coming  
forward fast and grabbing her legs, lifting her off the ground as  
they hustled her toward the car's open door. She reached up with one  
hand and grabbed at the arm around her neck. He was crushing her  
throat with his grip and with her own weight as he carried her. She  
couldn't breathe.

She felt the weight of the brick in her other hand, which she'd  
somehow managed to hold on to. Frantically, she swung up, dangerously  
close to her own face, and caught the man square in the temple just  
over her shoulder. His grip disappeared and he dropped like a sack of  
grain, dropping her at the same time.

She hit the ground hard, gasped in a breath, the brick flying to the  
side.

"Goddamnit!" the other man swore, keeping a strong hold on her legs  
as she kicked hard to get away. The driver had seen what had  
transpired and was coming now at a run.

Scully's vision swam, blood rushing back into her head, her hand on  
her sore throat. She just barely saw the blur of motion that came in  
from the side.

The man who had her legs was struck from the side, crashing to the  
ground as he released her in his surprise.

Mulder was on top of the man now, pinning him to the ground on his  
back. His arm swung back and he punched the man in the face viciously  
several times in quick succession, knocking him out cold.

Then Mulder spun, his hand going to the ankle holster he wore at the  
same time. In one fluid motion he was up on one knee, his gun pointed  
at the driver, halting him.

"Back the fuck off," Mulder snarled. The man put his hands up and  
did as he was told, walking backward toward the car again a slow step  
at a time.

"You okay?" Mulder called, though he kept his eyes on the man in  
front of him.

Scully sat up quickly, shaking her head clear. "Yeah..." she said,  
but her voice was hoarse.

"Oh my God! That man has a gun!"

The shout came from a woman who had rounded the corner to come to  
the restroom. Her companions screamed in terror.

"Come on!" Mulder said, grabbing Scully by the upper arm as she  
scrambled to her feet. They took off at a dead run for the truck, the  
women at the corner pressing themselves up against the building and  
screaming louder as they streaked past.

People were coming out of the store now to see what the commotion  
was about. Scully ran to the passenger door of the Bronco as Mulder  
went to the driver's, both of them flying up into their seats. Within  
a second, the engine roared, overrevved, to life, Mulder throwing the  
truck into gear and blasting out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust  
kicking up behind them as he bumped back onto the road and sped away.

Scully turned in the seat, looking out the back window as they  
headed up the highway, the truck continuing to accelerate. She  
coughed, her hand on her throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, panting.

She was heaving in breaths herself, her eyes still trained behind  
them.

"Yeah...yeah..." she said between breaths. Her voice sounded like it  
had sand in it. "Bruised..." She forced herself to swallow painfully.  
"But I'm okay."

The truck roared as Mulder continued to accelerate, pushing the old  
engine up past 80 now, the desert streaming by.

A tense few minutes passed, the only sounds their labored breathing  
and the V8.

Finally Scully turned around in her seat, pulled her cap off with  
one hand, pushed back her hair from her face.

"They didn't...they didn't follow us," she said, forcing herself to  
calm down. "Mulder, slow down...they're not coming."

Mulder seemed unconvinced as he pressed down on the accelerator  
harder, rocketing them out of the town and into the high desert,  
heading blindly for the red mountains and desolation in the distance.

 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 7b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 8.

 

***********

13 DUNKIRK AVENUE  
VIENNA, VIRGINIA  
9:38 p.m.

 

Skinner made his way up the walkway that led to the apartment  
building, the lit stone path shining with the evening's rain. It was  
a brownstone building, not too large, not too nice, and it fit the  
image that Skinner had of Granger, seemed the kind of place the young  
agent would live. Granger wouldn't splurge, Skinner thought, but he  
wouldn't skimp, either. The building reminded him of Scully's that  
way.

Even at this late hour, people were coming and going through the  
front doors, a Friday night party pulsing with music going on  
somewhere on the first floor. He could see the moving shadows of the  
party goers behind the curtains on one of the ground floor windows.  
He was glad for the party - it made him less conspicuous should  
anyone be watching the place.

He brushed past a couple coming out of the building, cigarettes  
already being lit up as they stepped into the misty rain. He went  
into the foyer beyond and more signs of taste greeted him. Hardwood  
floors, a large tasteful rug in the foyer just beneath the brass  
mailboxes.

He was looking for apartment 3E, and went to the elevator at the end  
of the foyer. The doors opened immediately and he stepped in, took  
his glasses off and cleaned them on the bottom of his black  
turtleneck as he rode up, replacing them once he'd cleared away the  
dots of rain.

The apartment was at the end of the hallway, an oriental runner  
leading the way toward the window and the door just beside it. He  
knocked. Waited. He looked up and down the deserted corridor as he  
did so.

Granger unlocked and opened the door after a brief moment, though to  
Skinner it felt like a long time. Granger wore jeans, a black sweater  
with the sleeves pushed up, no shoes. He wasn't as nervous as Skinner  
expected he would be, or as formal.

"Sir," the younger man said by way of greeting, and stood back  
immediately to allow Skinner to enter. Skinner did, and Granger  
closed the door behind him, turned the lock.

Skinner moved from the small entrance hallway into the apartment  
beyond, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room he entered. It  
was small living room, simply furnished but with pieces that looked  
carefully chosen and nicely made. An overstuffed dark green couch. A  
squat black leather chair and ottoman. Dark wood for the tables and  
the cabinet that held the television, which was on, the sound turned  
down low. Metal lamps with off-white shades, the one by the couch the  
only one on in the room. An oriental rug on the floor -- real,  
looking worn and antique. Black and white photographs on the walls. A  
painting of bare trees on the far wall, a lone figure walking a path  
between them.

The kitchen was beside it, separated from the larger room by a long  
half-wall topped with a wooden counter. Pots hung from a rack  
suspended from the ceiling. A hallway led toward two darkened  
doorways in the back of the apartment, and the shades and curtains  
were drawn on the windows.

The place was warm and cave-like and smelled like tea.

"Please," Granger said, coming up behind Skinner, who had stopped  
and was shouldering out of his jacket. "Have a seat."

Skinner lay the coat across the back of the leather chair and sat.  
He glanced at the television -- hockey was playing. Skinner looked  
from the television back to Granger, who was taking his place on the  
couch and reaching for the remote.

"I didn't know the Flyers were playing tonight," Skinner said.

Granger gave a small embarrassed smile as he flicked off the  
television. "Last year's playoffs on tape," he said. "I keep hoping  
if I watch them enough times they'll end differently."

Skinner grunted. "Good team," he said, doing his best to be casual,  
though he was so keyed up it was difficult to pull off.

"Yeah," Granger replied, replaced the remote on the coffee table.

There was an awkward moment of quiet.

"Did you call those people I asked you to?" Skinner said vaguely.

"Yes," Granger replied. "The place is clean, from what they said."

"Good," Skinner replied quietly. "Thank you for doing that."

Granger shook his head as if in disbelief. "I could make career out  
of two of those guys if I'd gone into private practice," he replied.  
"They could only be friends of Mulder's."

 

Skinner nodded. "Yeah, they are. They're good help."

Granger put his elbows on his knees and regarded Skinner seriously.

"I must admit," he began, seeming to choose his words with care,  
"that I was surprised when you called me. You made it seem like you  
didn't want me near you at the FBI the other day. That I couldn't be  
trusted."

Skinner looked toward the windows, clenched his teeth, nodded. "Yes,  
I did make it seem that way," he said, then turned his attention back  
to the other man. "But I've come to the conclusion that I don't  
really have anywhere else to turn *except* you."

"Thanks. I think." Granger said it dryly.

"Agent Granger, you have to understand that I would have some  
misgivings."

"I understand that you would," Granger replied. "But you also know  
that I believe Mulder is innocent of these charges. That given that  
belief I would be doing everything in my power to clear him. And I've  
given you information already to help he and Scully avoid capture by  
the task force that *I'm* supposed to be working on. I don't know  
what else I can do to convince you of my intentions."

Skinner nodded. "That's why I'm here," he said bluntly, but he  
looked away as he spoke, avoiding the other man's intense gaze.  
"You've convinced me."

Granger leaned back slightly, studied Skinner for a few seconds.

"I don't think so," Granger said, shaking his head. "You have  
changed your mind, but not because of me. Something's happened to  
*make* you change your mind, to make you risk talking to me."

Skinner felt color rise in his cheeks.

"I can tell something's different," Granger persisted.

Just my luck, Skinner thought wryly. I have to try and be evasive  
with the best profiler at the CI-fucking-A....

"Yes," he said finally through gritted teeth. "Something's happened."

"Are they all right?" Granger asked instantly, leaning forward, his  
voice lowered but weighted with concern.

Skinner hesitated, still unable to look at Granger. He warred with  
his instincts, one that told him it was imperative to tell what he  
knew and one that warned him against it, the latter a knee-jerk, like  
an old habit he was having a hard time breaking.

Christ, he thought. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten as paranoid  
as he'd always accused Mulder of being. The thought amused him in a  
gallows-humor sort of way.

"If we're going to get anything done on this, sir, we're going to  
have to tell each other what we know." Granger's voice was still low,  
but frustrated now. Urgent.

Skinner heaved out a frustrated breath, nodded and finally spoke.  
"As far as I know, they're all right," he said. "As much as the  
circumstances allow, that is."

"So you *have* been in contact with them."

"Yes. Since Tennessee." The words still came from him haltingly,  
quietly. "Though I never know their exact location. Mulder won't risk  
revealing that."

"Well, four days ago they were in El Centro, California," Granger  
said, and leaned down, drawing up a briefcase from beside the coffee  
table.

Skinner froze. "The task force knows this?"

Granger shook his head, rummaging through the briefcase and pulling  
out a folder. He handed it to Skinner.

"No, they don't," Granger said. "Only I do."

Skinner looked at him in confusion, still alarmed, and Granger  
nodded toward the folder. Skinner opened it, looked at the picture  
clipped to the inside.

His hand came up, a finger covering his mouth. Otherwise he was  
still.

The tension between Mulder and Scully radiated from the scratchy  
surveillance photo. And Scully...

God...

"What's wrong with Scully?" Granger asked, concern in his voice.  
Skinner knew the younger man must have read the anguish in his  
reaction, despite his attempt at hiding it.

Skinner didn't take his eyes from the photo as he spoke. "She was  
exposed to Owen Curran's drug," he said, his voice flat.

"Jesus..."

He hurried to continue. "She made it through the withdrawal and  
she's okay, but there have been some residual effects."

He nodded toward the photo.

"As you can see." He shook his head, let out a deep, tired breath.  
"Mulder won't go into any specifics about what they are, but seeing  
this..."

He could sense Granger studying him again in the beat of silence  
that followed.

"There's something else then," Granger urged. "Something you didn't  
know before that's made bringing them in more urgent."

Again Skinner hesitated. "Yes," he said at last, and now he did look  
at Granger. "Have you looked at the police report from Mae Curran's  
apartment recently?"

Granger seemed confused by the turn in the conversation, but nodded.  
"Yes, I just looked at the task force's copy yesterday in fact. To  
see if anything else had come in."

Skinner locked eyes with the other man. "And? Had anything new come  
in?"

Granger seemed more confused, and shook his head. "No," he said.  
"Not that I saw. Why?"

"Nothing in there..." He had to force himself to say it. "...about  
evidence of a rape."

Granger's mouth came open in shock, his eyes widening. Then his  
mouth closed, his expression sad. "God no," he said quietly. "Nothing  
like that."

"Well, there's one good thing I can say about that son-of-a-bitch  
Padden," Skinner said, bitter. "He's keeping that quiet from the  
whole goddamn world."

"Apparently so," Granger said, his tone matching Skinner's, though  
his expression remained stricken. "He seems to be pretty selective  
about information, so I'm not surprised. For once that instinct was  
right."

Then Granger seemed to breathe the ire about Padden out, relenting,  
and his voice softened again. "God, I'm so sorry for her," he said,  
shaking his head. "I won't mention this to anyone. She'll never know  
that I know."

"I appreciate that, Agent Granger," Skinner replied formally. "I had  
to tell you to find out what the task force knows or I wouldn't be  
talking about it myself."

"I understand," Granger said. "I see now why you came to me. Her  
situation is more dire than you thought."

"Yes."

They sat in a heavy silence for another moment. Skinner noticed a  
clock ticking somewhere in the room.

"What do you want me to do?" Granger asked finally.

Skinner had never been so glad to hear that phrase in his life.

"I'll be talking to them again in a couple of days," he said, and  
the words came quickly now. This part he knew. "I'm going to tell  
them what you told me -- that they need to find a place to hole up  
for a while. In fact, I'm in the process of making arrangements for  
that place right now. What I need from you is help diverting  
attention from where I'm going to send them."

"I take it," Granger gestured toward the folder still in Skinner's  
hands. "that you're not going to be sending them to the area around  
El Centro, California."

Skinner smirked a bit at that. "No," he replied. "Far from it."

Granger nodded, leaned back against the back of the couch. "So you  
want me to wait until you speak to them, give them a day or so, and  
then suddenly come up with that picture for the task force to throw  
them on the wrong trail."

Skinner looked at the man for a reaction, but Granger gave none. He  
knew he was asking Granger to do something that would ruin any chance  
the young agent could have at a career in law enforcement for the  
rest of his life.

"Can you do that without putting yourself at too much risk?" Skinner  
asked.

He was relieved when Granger considered for a few seconds and then  
nodded.

"Yes. I get stacks of possible sightings of them and Curran every  
day. I'll just pretend it came in a current stack. No one will be  
able to tell when it got to me. We get so many."

"All right," Skinner said, pleased. That part was taken care of.  
Between the two of them, they could keep Padden away from Mulder and  
Scully until he could tuck them away.

He just hoped the place he planned on putting them would come  
through.

"I've been working on a couple of things," Granger said,  
interrupting his thoughts. "Things about verifying where Mulder was  
during some of the times that Padden is trying to say he could have  
been meeting with the Path."

"Yes, that's what this is going to take," Skinner said. "We're not  
going to be able to take this out with one blow. We're going to have  
to chip away at it, a little piece of information at a time."

Granger nodded. "Yes, and I might have a small piece. I'm trying to  
find a woman named Nancy Rand who was working at the gate where  
Scully was supposed to board the plane to Boston, to see if she can  
ID Mulder from the gate area. She's left the airline and I'm having a  
hard time tracking her down, but I'll find her."

"Good," Skinner replied. "That's good. Another big piece of this is  
those two days Mulder was gone in January. January 12-13. That was  
right before the bombing and is one of the more damaging pieces of  
Padden's case against Mulder -- that he would leave the task force in  
Richmond without telling anyone like that, and be so cagey about  
where he'd been, even to you. We need to find out where he was during  
that time, as well."

"Yeah, Padden's been all over that with me," Granger said, his  
frustration clear in his tone. "I could never give him a good enough  
answer because I didn't know anything myself."

"I'll see what I can do about that," Skinner continued. "I'll ask  
Mulder about it and see if there's some way to support what he tells  
me. I haven't been talking about any of this with him yet. I've been  
too worried about our contact being monitored to get into anything  
like that with him. But we'll have to risk it."

He looked down at the photograph again, at Scully's thin face. He  
shook his head.

"We've got to do something. And soon."

He handed the folder back to Granger. The younger man stared a hole  
in the photograph for a moment. Skinner watched and concern pricked  
him.

"You sure you're up for this?" he asked.

Granger didn't look up. "We could go to jail for this," he said, his  
voice softer and touched with disbelief. "Everything both of us have  
worked for...just gone."

Skinner's jaw pulsed. "Yes." He said it without apology.

After a few more seconds, he asked Granger the same question again.

"Yeah," Granger replied, and closed the folder. "Yeah, I'm in."

 

**********

OFF RESERVATION ROUTE 58  
HOPI INDIAN RESERVATION  
11:35 p.m.

 

One thing that Scully could never quite get used to was that the  
desert, so warm during the day, could be so cold at night, the ground  
so barren and the blank slate of black above it so unforgiving that  
the earth itself seemed unable to hold even the smallest bit of  
warmth.

She curled closer around herself in the back of the Bronco, tucking  
herself deeper into the sleeping bag, pressing her face closer into  
the small camp pillow they'd bought at an outdoor store weeks ago.  
Her hand rested near the butt of her Sig beside her.

She was on her side on the pushed down back of the rear seat, which  
they'd dropped down to allow them both to stretch out, Mulder lying  
beside her. There was a small space between them.

It wasn't often they were forced to sleep in the truck, but they'd  
bought the supplies just in case the need arose. The few times they  
had done it, they had zipped the bags together, making one large sack  
that they both slept in, pressed against each other for warmth. But  
this night when she'd settled in after doing her ablutions as best  
she could and changing her clothes outside the truck, she'd simply  
unstuffed her bag from its sack and slipped inside, turning toward  
the marred side window without a word.

Mulder had said nothing and had done the same, but she knew the  
slight was not lost on him. She could feel it in his silence.

They were far out on a dirt road off the rural route they'd been  
driving on, a remote area on this, one of the poorest reservations.  
Mulder had driven for a good ten minutes off the paved road,  
following the twisting near-trail over a small rise and parking  
beside a small thatch of scraggly trees. It was too dark to see much  
outside, though the full moon had cast a pale golden glow through the  
trees as she'd stood beneath them, layered in bunting and sweats.  
She'd brushed her teeth with the help of an old Army surplus canteen  
full of metal-tasting water. Nearby, Mulder had done the same,  
finishing up and then pulling layers of clothes out of his suitcase  
for warmth.

They had said little for hours, but not because of what was between  
them, really. It was more that they were both completely exhausted,  
the adrenaline rush of the afternoon giving way sometime around dark  
to a fatigue so complete that she'd been forced to keep an eye on  
Mulder to make sure he didn't fall asleep at the wheel.

They'd crisscrossed side roads off the main highway, trying to stay  
away from the few towns on the map. That was one of the problems with  
the area they were in. There were only so many places a person could  
actually stop to get what they needed, and putting people at all of  
them wouldn't be that much of an expenditure of manpower. Though  
they'd stopped once without incident for gas at one small town, they  
hadn't stopped again until now.

Behind her, Mulder shifted, his breathing slow, signalling his  
impending sleep. Usually she took great comfort in that sound. But  
not tonight.

She put a hand to her bruised throat, worrying it with her fingers.  
Her lids were heavy, her eyes slowly losing their focus on the view  
outside the window, the curve of stars across the dome above her.

Who were those men?

Certainly hired by Curran -- she had to trust that even Padden  
wouldn't attempt to bring her home with that kind of force. Plus, it  
seemed more likely that Padden's men would take Mulder before they'd  
take her.

But who?

Were there only three of them -- bounty hunters out for quick money -  
\- or were there more? The men were American, or at least the two  
who'd spoken were, so it probably wasn't Path. Some other group,  
someone Curran had had dealings with, perhaps...

Mae had told Mulder that Owen had "long arms," even in the U.S. That  
she was fleeing the country to escape this fact, and had urged Mulder  
and her to do the same...

Too tired...

Her lids slipped shut, her fingers still moving absently across her  
throat for a moment. Then they grew still.

**

And then she was swimming, deep, light filtering through the surface  
in streaming beams, reaching for the bottom, which she could not see  
in the blue beneath her. The surface was dozens of meters away, and  
she glided smooth through the water.

Her lungs drew in huge breaths of water, breathed them out, her arms  
pulled her along. On one pull through the water, her legs fluttering  
effortless behind her, she caught sight of a scrap of gold on her  
left ring finger, a band shot with what appeared to be tiny diamonds.  
They caught the light and held it as she swam, the world heavy and  
liquid and filled with faint echoes rippling through water.

A huge school of silver fish appeared below her, their tails  
twitching in near unison as they moved along. She watched them for a  
moment, then turned and swam deeper, joining them. They parted just  
enough to let her in amongst them, turning, angling away from her  
body. She could see strands of her hair float within her vision as  
she kept pace with them, their tin wide eyes following her, their  
mouths opening and closing as though they were all speaking at once  
in a silent language she couldn't understand.

Slowly they turned and formed a circle, moving around her in a  
spiral stretching toward the bottom, like a slow tornado of silver  
bodies swirling around her. She stopped in the center, felt their  
small bodies, hundreds, brush against her fingertips as she reached  
out toward the wall of them surrounding her.

She drew in another deep breath, the sound in her ears, echoing,  
hollow sounds, as though she were breathing low rumbles of thunder  
underwater.

She hung, suspended, nothing but blue above her and below, the  
spiral of silver around her, all of it weightless, sunlight dancing  
on her skin from the surface far above her...

The harsh sun as she exited the bathroom. An arm across her throat,  
jerking her back against the hard shape of a body, warm harsh breath  
on her ear...

Fagan's hands on her throat, squeezing, lifting her slightly against  
the sink, her hand groping for the cold handle of the knife as the  
other clawed at his wrist...

Breathe she couldn't breathe she couldn't breathe

Her head smashing against the hardwood floor, hands pushing at her  
robe. His body flat against her back, the long bone of his arm  
pinning her neck back...

The man lifting her, carrying her, a hand across her mouth and nose.  
She sucked in for air and got nothing but skin, the taste of salt...

Salt in her lungs. Sea water burning down her throat as she inhaled,  
choking now, bubbles of air appearing before her face and racing  
upward. She screamed, the sound muffled, otherworldly...

She shot for the surface, the fish scattering in alarm. She could  
see it above her. A bluish light she struggled toward, her arms  
clawing out in front of her, leaving trails of tiny bubbles like  
motion.

Her vision hazed from lack of oxygen. The brick in her hand,  
swinging back, blindly.

The knife swinging forward, the sound of metal on teeth. A scream of  
outrage. Pain.

The surface was just a few feet away. Her hand reached up to break  
the surface, her lungs burning...

Her hand hit hard on something cold. Bluish white. Flat and smooth  
against her palm.

Ice. The surface was ice.

Her head knocked up against it as she fought the instinct to pull in  
a breath. She skittered along the underside, arms flailing, searching  
for a break, a crack, a weak spot, anything.

Her face pressed against the thick surface, she opened her mouth and  
screamed.

**

Mulder's sleep was dead, his mind completely empty, his body  
perfectly still.

That didn't stop him from shooting into a sit the instant the sound  
began, the hoarse scream tearing around the interior of the truck's  
cabin.

His eyes were wide, his hand going for the gun beside him without  
him even thinking of it. He pulled in a panicked breath and his eyes  
shot toward Scully beside him.

She thrashed as though the sleeping bag were squeezing down on her,  
her left hand up on the window, her nails scratching across the glass  
as her arm shook violently, its tremble only slightly greater than  
that of the rest of her body. The hand turned into a fist and slammed  
against the glass.

"Scully!" He put the gun down, scooted over to her, put a hand out  
and grasped her wrist. His own arm shook with the force of her  
tremor.

"Calm down...calm down..."

She pulled in a harsh breath, gasping, hyperventilating from the  
sounds of it, screamed again, this time the word "no," high and  
shrill and terrified. She jerked her arm away from his grasp, her  
hand fumbling out in front of her blindly, her eyes still clenched  
closed.

Her fingers grazed the butt of her Sig. She grasped it quickly, the  
other hand joining it as she hefted the thing, her finger on the  
trigger instantly, lifting--

"NO!" Mulder said, loud, and threw himself out of his sleeping bag,  
flattened his body on top of hers, his hand going for the gun. Her  
grip was iron, her strength adrenaline- and terror-fueled, and Mulder  
had to slam her hands down on the floor of the truck to keep her from  
raising the weapon.

"Scully, no!" He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was hard to  
muster under the circumstances. "Let go...just let it go..."

She didn't listen, her breath wheezing, too fast. He did manage to  
get her shaking left hand off the gun, the finger off the trigger.  
Then he pulled that arm in against her body and held it there with  
one of his own. He grasped the Sig with the other, grappling with  
her. Finally he got it away from her, clicked over the safety with a  
finger and tossed it haphazardly toward the tailgate.

"Get off! Get them off me!" she shrieked, and he knew he must be  
crushing her, his chest flat against her upper arm and back, pinning  
her to the floor and holding her arms in against her body. She  
screamed it again, desperate, jerking violently in his hold.

Keeping her arms against her with one forearm as she struggled, he  
rolled until he was behind her now, pushed an arm beneath her body  
and pulled her back to his chest, his arms pressing her elbows to her  
sides. Her breathing was still shallow, stentorious. He put his cheek  
against her head, his lips close to her ear, stilling her thrashing  
head as best he could.

Her nails sunk into his forearms where his sleeves had pushed up,  
her fingers curled like claws, raking up skin, drawing blood. He  
winced, but held on.

"Okay..." He was panting now himself. He pressed a kiss to her ear,  
shushing her.

She kicked back at him with her legs and he got one knee over them  
to protect his shins and groin.

"I can't breathe..." Her voice was high, reedy, filled with air as  
she gasped.

"You know what to do, Scully...we can do this together...listen to  
my voice now." He tightened his hold as she thrashed again.  
"Twenty...nineteen..."

She was crying now. "God, I can't...can't breathe..."

"Eighteen...seventeen...sixteen..."

"He's...he's crushing my throat..." A sob. Her arm shook harder  
against his, her nails still digging in. She pulled in a desperate  
breath.

He kissed her lobe again, holding her tighter.  
"Fifteen...fourteen...come on, Scully...come with me..."

He kept counting, felt her back heave against his chest. Slowly her  
breathing grew deeper as her tears came freely.

"Eleven.."

Then finally, she answered: "Ten," pulled in a deeper ragged breath.

"Nine...eight...come on..." He whispered it into her ear, felt her  
begin to relax, her body softening as she breathed more easily now,  
her hands relaxing some.

"Seven," she choked out. "Six..."

"Five," they said in unison, and their voices melded together  
through the last of it, Scully still breathing hard but calmer now.  
As they reached "one," he loosened his grip on her until she simply  
lay in his arms, pulled his leg back until it rested behind hers.

"You're okay," he said softly. "Everything's all right."

They lay still for several minutes.

Then he could feel her coming back to herself. He could tell by the  
way her hands pulled away from his arms, how her legs came up and  
away from his. She pushed her head from beneath his, bending her head  
down and away, and he lay his own behind hers, feeling the distance  
set back in.

It was as if she'd placed him in a skiff and gave him a slow push  
off her shore.

She scrubbed at her eyes, her hand shaking as she pushed her hair  
off her face.

He sighed in the quiet that followed. She allowed him to hold her  
still, but he knew it was only to spare his feelings. Not because she  
wanted him to. The thought made him ache inside.

"Everything's all right," he said again, and this time he was trying  
to convince himself as much as her.

Then, as if in answer, footsteps outside the truck. A horse coming  
nearer.

He pulled away from her, rolled toward his gun, heard her sharp  
intake of breath at the sound. He picked up the pistol, turned  
carefully around so that he was facing the back of the truck now, the  
gun in front of him.

The horse stopped. Then the heavy sound of someone leaping down and  
landing on both feet. The sound of walking, then a dim shape outside  
the back window, a beam of a flashlight dancing through the foggy  
glass.

Neither he or Scully seemed to be breathing. They were frozen still.

A knock on the window.

"You in there," a man's voice said sharply. "Open up."

Mulder kept still. A drop of sweat raced down his temple despite the  
chill.

"I heard you in there all the way from half a mile away. I know  
you're in there. Now open up."

Mulder lay the hand that held the gun down on the floor, edged  
closer to the door and turned the handle to the back window slowly,  
the gun aimed at the tailgate. He pushed the window open, the man  
standing back as it swung out and up.

Mulder looked out, squinting in the beam of the flashlight the man  
shone right in his face. Mulder put a hand up to shield his eyes. He  
could make out the man's face dimly -- Native American. Late fifties.  
Jacket. Plaid shirt. A shotgun in the hand that didn't hold the  
flashlight.

"What the hell you doing out here?" the man asked.

"We...we were just stopping to sleep for the night," Mulder replied.  
"There was no place to stay, so we--"

"You're 100 feet from where my sheep are penned," the man  
interrupted. "You're not welcome to stop here."

"We won't be any trouble," Mulder said, and there was a hint of  
pleading in his voice. He couldn't face the road again so soon. "Just  
for tonight--"

"You've already been trouble," the man grumbled in reply. "I had to  
come out here to see who the hell you are. This is my land. You're  
not welcome here. Get back on the road and get on out of here." He  
hefted the shotgun for effect.

"All right," Mulder said. His hand held tight to the gun in case the  
man followed up his words. "We'll be on our way."

The man made a small affirmative sound in his throat, a grunt. "You  
want some place to stay get off the Hopi reservation. We don't like  
people *staying* here."

"All right," Mulder said again, and the man turned, going toward the  
horse that stood a few feet from the truck, its grey back bathed in  
moonlight. The man swung himself up into the saddle, gave the horse a  
nudge with his heels, and turned and walked slowly away.

Mulder wiped his forehead with his hand, releasing a breath. He sat  
up straighter, pulled the window back down and closed it. Behind him,  
he could hear Scully starting to breathe again herself.

"I'll drive," she said, began to sit up. He put a hand out to stop  
her.

"No, I'll do it," he said softly, resigned. "You stay back here and  
try to get some sleep. I'll find us somewhere to go."

"But you're exhausted, Mulder," she said, looking at him with  
concern and a touch of exasperation. "You were falling asleep at the  
wheel before."

"I'm all right," he said, and shifted toward the front of the truck.  
He climbed over the seat, took his place behind the wheel.

"Mulder--"

"You can relieve me in a couple of hours if I can't find a place by  
then, okay?" he offered peevishly, cutting her off. They were both in  
strung out shape. There was nothing to be gained by having a contest  
about who was worse off at this point, and he was too tired to argue.

"All right," she said, and her voice sounded very far away. He  
hadn't meant to silence her quite so harshly.

He shook his head, regretting it.

He placed the gun beside him on the seat. His bare feet reached for  
the cold pedals and he turned the ignition, the truck coming to life.  
He shook himself awake harder, squeezing the steering wheel tightly.  
Then he flicked on the headlights, threw the truck into gear, turned  
and crept down the dirt road, the headlights doing little to cut  
through the darkness around them.

 

**********

END OF CHAPTER 8. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 9.

 

*********

 

THE ISABELLA  
BAHIA SAN JORGE  
MARCH 24  
6:12 a.m.

 

The nets dragged deep. They strained against their braces as the  
ship rose and fell on the sea, a spray of foamy water coming up as  
the bow slapped down against the waves heading into the Point. The  
air was filled with the sounds of water and creaking wood, the  
ubiquitous sound of the seagulls that followed the boat, hoping for  
the leavings once the nets were pulled in.

Joe Porter stood at the bow, a plastic mug filled with chicory  
coffee in his hands. He turned his face away as the spray washed  
over him, over the yellow slicker he wore, the top gaping open to  
reveal the high loose matching pants that hung from their red  
suspenders, his battered white t-shirt. Pushing his wet hair out of  
his face, he returned his gaze to the shore, his eyes squinting  
against the sharp beams of light coming up from the sun as it dawned.  
The sky burned orange as though it were on fire.

Behind him, the Mexican fishermen were laughing over a game of  
cards. Even when they laughed, he mused, they laughed in Spanish.  
They were all waiting for the boat to finish this circuit, waiting  
for the nets to be pulled in. This was his favorite time. The  
waiting. The heavy smell of the sea and the shrimp already hauled  
in, the bitter coffee in his hands. His head was clearer out here.  
It gave him time to think, though sometimes the thoughts pained him.

This morning that was the case. He was thinking about California,  
the last terrible weeks he'd spent there. He thought about the  
sleepless nights he'd given over to the partying and the drug, the  
heroin sending a warm rush into his arm as he pushed the needle down  
in the bathroom stalls of a dozen clubs. The music pounding through  
the walls. The money exchanged, both into and out of his hands, with  
a dozen strangers every night. And then leaving alone to walk the  
warm streets, lost, feeling both the best and worst he ever had in  
his life. The drug made sure of that.

The morning he'd come home to find the police moving in and out of  
his apartment just before dawn, he'd known that life was finally at  
an end. Though he'd been terrified at the sight, a part of him was  
relieved, welcomed the end to the space his life had placed between  
him and the rest of the world, the way it had turned everyone around  
him into convenient acquaintances, the drug the only thing that  
passed for connection with anyone in his life.

Without stopping, he'd driven his Jeep right by his apartment and  
headed south, his wallet and pockets stuffed full with cash from the  
night's dealings, his head still humming, the world gauzed from his  
lingering high. He had enough product to keep him going for awhile.  
Enough to wean himself off if he was careful. And lucky.

Then the long drive through the desert, down past San Diego and  
across the border by midday, through Tijuana and Mexicali, skirting  
the Arizona border to Sonoita and then west to the Point, perched  
right on the Gulf.

Then the nights of shivering in the dingy motel room as the drug ran  
out. The pain, the screaming need of his body, lying all night  
drenched with sweat, shaking, caught in fitful, fevered dreaming. He  
hadn't gone out, even to eat, for days as the drug worked its way out  
of his system like a slow and painful burning.

When it was over he vowed to never go back. He'd gone out, still  
weak, into the town and gotten a job, a place to live on his  
dwindling money, and begun this new life. Quiet. Simple. Solitary.

Until now. He gave a small smile to the thought.

The sun coming in warm now, he pulled off the slicker and tossed it  
near the wheel house, took a sip of his coffee. On his tanned arms,  
the needle scars stood out like pink and white tattoos, like points  
on a map following the battered veins down toward his wrists. He  
would carry the scars of that life forever.

The physical, at least. Some other part of him was coming back to  
life. Healing over. All he had to do was think about her and he  
could feel that part of him, a tough bud, opening.

"Oye!" the captain called, coming out from the wheelhouse. The  
engine rumbled into idle and the boat slowed, buffeted harder by the  
waves as its forward motion waned. "Estn subiendo las redes!"

Time for the nets to come in.

Joe didn't move right away, though the captain was already throwing  
the wench into motion, the rope that held the nets off the side of  
the boat like great wings grinding over the pulleys, wood and metal  
whining. Everyone on the deck sprang into motion, grabbing small  
wooden rakes, pulling on thick gloves that covered all the way to  
their forearms. Rubber boots squeaked on the deck.

"You, too, El Callado." The captain, Esteban, slapped Joe on the  
shoulder as he passed him on the way to the bow, a good-natured smile  
on his face. Joe smiled back at the name he'd been given by the  
captain and crew -- "Quiet One." He really did do much to keep to  
himself.

He put his coffee down against the side, went for his gloves and  
rake, as well, joined the men on either side of the boat.

The sea foamed as the nets were brought up. They rose heavy and  
dark from the water, men with grappling hooks snagging them and  
pulling them over the wide stern. Then, with the pull of a handle,  
the ropes released, the catch slapping to the deck in a huge heap of  
shine and motion.

Joe moved in with the rest, first using his rake to push away the  
frantic crabs, reaching down and tossing them over the side back into  
the sea. The shrimp they sought lay in huge clumps, barely moving  
amongst the blankets of shocked silver fish. The men worked quickly,  
pulling the fish out and sending them over the side, as well,  
seagulls drawing neat parabolas in the air to catch them before they  
hit the safety of the surface.

A small shark lay in the middle of it all, thrashing, its mouth  
desperately drawing in useless air. Joe went to it immediately,  
grasped the thick tail with both hands and threw it over the side.

It was a good catch. Several hundred pounds of shrimp. The boat  
would earn out its trip between this load and the three previous.  
The men would get paid. Everyone was in good spirits as they worked  
because of this.

Someone started a song and the men picked it up. Joe smiled but did  
not join in, though he knew the song well. It was about a sailor  
coming in from the sea. The men's voices rose and fell over the  
clatter of claws, rakes; the wet slap of fish hitting the water; the  
engine rumbling.

The sun continued to rise, a golden eye.

The catch secured, they headed back to port, the men smoking,  
singing, clustered at the stern, their legs dangling over the sides.

Joe stood apart from them as he always did, up near the bow again so  
he could watch the port edge closer. He thought of her again. Her  
beautiful face. The blue of her eyes. The tiny smile she gave him  
as she looked away when she caught him watching her.

It seemed to him she'd been wanting to be closer to him lately.  
They'd spent the night together again last night. He'd slipped from  
the bed hours before dawn, leaving her there, her soft, nude body  
bathed in moonlight. It had been all he could do to leave.

He was still troubled by her secrets. But there was a warmth to her  
now, a slow opening to him that hadn't been there before.

He knew he was in love with her. And he thought she might be  
falling in love with him, as well. Thinking this, he, too, warmed  
inside. He felt less empty somehow. As though he were somehow  
emerging from the brittle shell of his past.

He watched the land approach, looming nearer now. Other boats were  
already back with their catches, men swarming the pier, trucks  
honking, a bustle of movement everywhere he looked.

Two men came forward and grabbed the ropes that would secure the  
Isabella to the dock once again. Joe stepped out of the way,  
scanning the dock

No, he corrected himself. There wasn't movement everywhere.

Mae stood perfectly still in the center of a swirl of activity, a  
maelstrom of men carrying crates of shrimp, holding huge gutted fish  
by the tails. Her hair was pulled back, and her pale skin was  
luminous in the morning light. Sean was with her, standing against  
her leg, watching the activity around him with a child's interest.

Joe looked at her and their eyes locked, their gazes hanging. She  
gave him that same shy smile, looked away, then back up at him again,  
something pleased and tentative in her eyes.

He gave her a tender smile in return, raised a hand to her as the  
boat touched gently in to shore.

 

*************

 

FRY CANYON, UTAH  
HIGHWAY 95  
8:36 a.m.

 

Scully pulled herself back toward consciousness and the effort was  
like dragging her body out of sand, her sleep had been so complete.  
Her face was cold, the rest of her warm within the sleeping bag, and  
she pulled the flap of it up and over the side of her head, willing  
the chill away.

She opened her eyes then. Something was different. The lull of the  
tires rolling on pavement was gone now, the truck still. Sunlight  
was coming in through the dirty side windows of the Bronco, and she  
could make out the shape of a gas station canopy out the window, a  
loud sign advertising a two-liter bottle of Coke for 99 cents. Then  
the sound of liquid rushing into the truck somewhere at her feet, the  
hiss of gas entering the huge tank.

She sat upright quickly, orienting herself, and saw Mulder leaning  
with his back against the tailgate, his head bowed forward. He  
wasn't moving, his shoulders sagging within his denim jacket, the  
hood of the sweatshirt he wore beneath it pressed against the dingy  
glass.

She wondered what time it was. Early, she gathered, from the way  
the sunlight glowed on the horizon in the distance out the front  
windshield.

The memory of the night before came back to her now, seeming a  
lifetime ago. She ran it over in her mind, the images suffocating  
her until she pushed them away. She remembered Mulder's conversation  
with the man out the back of the truck, then him crawling over the  
seat, promising to wake her in two hours if he didn't find a place to  
stay by then.

Thinking all this, she returned her gaze to Mulder, and ire started  
to rise in her. He hadn't woken her up as they'd agreed. She'd bet  
anything he'd driven all night while she slept, not stopping or even  
looking for a place to stop.

She disentangled herself from the sleeping bag, the morning chill of  
the truck's cabin hitting her full on. It was too early for the sun  
to have warmed anything yet, the desert still cold and still from the  
night. She edged closer to the tailgate and knocked on the window at  
Mulder's back.

He jumped at the sound as though she'd startled him awake, then  
turned around and stepped back as she opened the back window.

"Good morning," he said softly. He did not smile. His face didn't  
seem up for it. His eyes were deeply rimmed in red, smudges beneath  
his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" she asked by way of greeting, her  
voice still sleepy but with a sharp edge to it.

He shrugged. "I thought it would be good for you to sleep," he said  
gently. "I could handle it. I was pretty awake."

She shook her head, and now the exasperation did touch her voice.  
"You could have fallen asleep at the wheel, Mulder, especially  
without me there to keep you up. It was dangerous and it was  
stupid."

He seemed taken back by her tone and her words. "I didn't think it  
was a big deal," he offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the  
other uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Scully."

She reached over for her suitcase, unzipped it hard and pulled out  
her small toiletries bag. "You're not sorry," she grumbled. "I'm  
sick of you trying to shelter me, Mulder. We're partners, before  
we're anything else. I'm still an FBI agent, for God's sake, and I  
expect to be treated like one. Not like a child who needs  
coddling."

"Scully, I know you're my partner. But you've been hurt badly and  
have been very sick," Frustration leaked into his voice, as well. "I  
mean, Jesus, look at what you've been through --"

She glared at him, pinning him. There was a warning in her eyes and  
she could tell from the way he swallowed down the rest of what he was  
going to say that he saw it.

"What I've been through has nothing to do with this," she said  
dismissively.

"It has everything to do with it," he said instantly, and he was  
angry now. "You may be trying to pretend like it doesn't, but I've  
been with you for weeks now and I've seen the toll this has taken on  
you. Hell, the toll it's taken on both of us. If there's anything I  
can do to try and alleviate that, I'm going to damn well do it.  
Especially if it's something as simple as driving for a few extra  
hours so you can rest."

His words stung her. She felt herself flush at what he'd said about  
the effect this was having on him. It was the first time he'd said  
anything like that aloud.

After a few seconds, she pulled herself together, anger simmering in  
her along with the blossoming guilt and shame.

"Then do these things to protect yourself and not to protect me if  
it's taking such a toll on you," she said, the feelings warring in  
her, and she pushed the tailgate down, scrambling down and grabbing  
her shoes. She pulled them on, then stood and faced him, looking up  
into his weary face.

She let the anger rise again.

"But part of protecting yourself is not playing the macho hero in  
all this and running yourself into the ground. You're no use to  
either of us that way. Any more than I would be if I were doing the  
same thing."

She saw him chafe at the "macho hero" comment as he jammed his hands  
deep in his pockets and looked down, his jaw pulsing with an unspoken  
response. He relented, blowing out a breath as the gas nozzle  
snapped, signaling that the tank was full.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to call Skinner," he said, brushing the  
previous conversation away. "Tell him what happened yesterday. See  
if there's any change."

"I'll call him this time."

He looked at her in surprise. "What?"

She glared at him again. "I can give and receive information as  
well as you can, Mulder," she said.

"Yes, but he's used to dealing with me on this -"

"Well, I think it's time for that to change, too," she replied  
firmly. "It's not like I don't know the man. Give me his cell  
number."

Mulder looked at her, his expression uncertain and worried.

She looked at him and her heart jumped. "What have you told him?"  
she asked. "Is there something you've said to him that you don't  
want me to know about?"

His mouth gaped, then shut to a thin line for a few seconds.

"God, no, Scully, I would never tell him anything without asking you  
first. He knows about the drug, and that's it. How can you even ask  
me such a thing?"

She sighed. "You just seemed to not want me to talk to him, that's  
all. And I wondered why."

He said nothing to that. He reached into his back pocket and drew  
out his wallet, pulling out the slip of paper with the phone number  
on it. Then he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of  
change, all quarters. He'd obviously already gotten the money for  
the call when he paid for the gas.

"There," he said quietly, offering both to her.

She tossed her toiletries bag back into the truck - she would get  
cleaned up afterward - and took the number and the handful of change  
from him. Then she stalked off toward the phone booth at the far end  
of the lot. She could feel his eyes following her.

It had been a long time since she'd had this much feeling about  
anything, certainly any feeling other than the panic that so often  
gripped her in the wake of the dreams, the anguish she'd felt in the  
bed with him that night in the hotel, her shirt pressed to her  
chest.

This anger was something new. She didn't know where it came from.  
But a part of her welcomed it, welcomed the power that surged through  
her with it.

She would not be a victim of any of this. And she would certainly  
not let Mulder - or anyone else - treat her as one.

She reached the phone, spread the coins out on the small ledge  
beneath it. She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, putting  
in the right amount of coinage for the first five minutes with her  
good hand. The phone began to ring.

"Hello?" Skinner called, picking up on the second ring. His voice  
was tight and alert, as though he'd been expecting the call.

"Assistant Director Skinner," she replied. "It's Agent Scully."

There was a beat of silence, then: "Scully, has something happened  
to Mulder?"

"No, sir, he's right here with me," she said evenly. "I just  
thought it would be good for you and I to make contact this time."

Another beat. "Okay.um, sure, Scully. That's fine."

There was something in his tone that she didn't like. A hesitancy.  
An awkwardness that hadn't been there in their interactions before.  
She pushed it aside. She was probably just being paranoid, she  
thought.

"What's the status of things?" he asked.

She told him about what had happened at the gas station the day  
before, about their night of running. She said it all  
dispassionately, as though she were talking about someone else, or a  
case they were working on.

"But.you're all right?" Skinner asked with care.

"Yes, sir, I'm fine," she said formally.

"Have you shaken them?"

She glanced around the lot, down the deserted stretch of highway  
beyond them. It occurred to her that she had no idea where they  
were.

"It would appear so, yes," she replied finally.

"They'd have to be working for Curran," Skinner thought aloud. "The  
question is who. I'll get on my end and see if I can come up with  
any leads about people he might have had dealings with. Any  
intelligence on groups with ties to the area you're in. I'll see  
what I can find."

"There's no way to know, I suppose, if these might just be people  
he's hired, or if they're part of a larger group," she rejoined.  
"It's hard to tell how widespread they could be, hard to know where  
to run to get away from them."

The phone beeped and she put more coins in the slot. Skinner waited  
until she was done before he began speaking again.

"Well, that's not going to be an issue anymore," Skinner said. "I'm  
working with Agent Granger now and he said that you're going to get  
caught if you keep running. There have been sightings of you all  
over the place. I saw a picture of the two of you myself last night."

"Where?" she asked, and was suddenly afraid.

"Southern California. I hope you're away from there now?"

"Yes," she said, relieved instantly. She knew not to tell him where  
they were, even if she did know.

"That's good," Skinner said. "Look, Granger says you've got to stop  
running or the task force is going to find you eventually."

"But what about these men that were after us yesterday?" Scully  
asked. "Won't staying put make it easier for them to find us?"

"Not where I'm going to send you," Skinner replied. "I've made  
arrangements for a place for you to stay. Someplace safe. Out of  
the way."

"I can't imagine where that would be," Scully replied, dubious.

"You remember a few years ago you two met up with a Code Talker out  
that way, a Navajo man named Albert Hosteen?"

"Of course," she said. "He saved Mulder's life. He protected us  
both."

"Well, I've spoken to him and he's prepared to protect the two of  
you again. I've explained the situation to him as best I can, told  
him Mulder was being wrongly accused by elements of the government  
and that you're with him for your own protection. He remembered you  
both well. He didn't even hesitate to say he would hide you on the  
reservation, even when I told him what the penalties could be for  
him."

Scully leaned against the phone, feeling something in her unhitch.  
It would mean an end to the running, at least temporarily. And they  
would most likely be safe there, as Skinner had said. Out of sight.

"He's a very good man to do that for us," she said finally. She  
felt choked up at thought of someone risking this much for them,  
someone they barely knew. She pushed the emotion down as she cleared  
her throat. "Thank you for arranging that for us."

"I'm glad to do it," Skinner replied gently. "I know you two need  
to stop. You've been running for a long time. And I know it's got  
to be hard on you both. Especially on you."

Scully looked down, feeling exposed. It was hard for her to hear  
that tone from Skinner. It seemed familiar in a way that made her  
feel vulnerable and she wasn't comfortable with it.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, her voice formal and even again.  
"How do we find him?"

"He's in Two Grey Hills, New Mexico," Skinner said, all business  
again himself. "He told me to tell you to head for Farmington, then  
go to the reservation from there. There's a gas station over the  
reservation line just as you cross in, an Exxon station with a  
market. His son owns it. He said for you to go there and his son  
would give you directions on how to find him. He's expecting you any  
time. He said everything would be arranged by the time you got  
there."

"All right," Scully said. "I'm not sure where we are right now, but  
we'll head that way immediately. Get there as fast as we can."

"Good."

Another beep, saying time was running out. Scully pushed more coins  
into the machine.

Then there was a strange, long pause from Skinner. Her brow creased  
as it stretched. She could almost see him starting to say something  
and yet remained silent.

"Is there something else, sir?" she asked finally. She looked  
across the parking lot, saw Mulder standing by the truck, watching  
her, his hands still in his pockets.

"Yes, there is, Scully," Skinner said quietly. Another pause. She  
grew more nervous in the midst of this one.

"I'm actually glad you were the one who called this time, because  
there's something I thought you might want to know," he said at last.  
His voice was so quiet and hesitant it was almost difficult to hear  
him.

"What is it?" A feeling of unnamable dread came over her.

"I've gone over the reports from the crime scene at Mae Curran's  
apartment. The autopsy report on John Fagan," He stopped again,  
trailing off.

Her heart clenched like a fist at the mention of the name. "Yes?"  
she replied, forcing her voice into a normal pitch.

"I thought you might like to know.well, that he was clean," Skinner  
said, something sad in his voice. "No sign of diseases at all. No  
HIV. Nothing."

She sucked in a breath. Blood rushed to her neck and her face,  
making her feel suddenly boiling hot. Her stomach plummeted as her  
trembling hand went up to brace her against the booth's glass.

He knows.

God, they probably all know.

She clenched her eyes closed as they stung. She felt stripped. Raw.

"Scully?" he called. "Are you there?"

She pulled in the breath, willing the shake in it away. She swiped  
her eyes. Her hand shook harder as she pinched the bridge of her  
nose.

"Yes, I'm here," she said, and her tone did not quite reach its  
normal tenor. She had to get off the phone. "Thank you, sir. Thank  
you for the information."

He was silent for another beat, as though he were sizing her up.  
"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, sir. Just fine. Is there anything else?"

He cleared his throat, and his awkwardness was tangible in the air  
around her. As were her own emotions as they crashed into her. The  
anger she'd felt so recently, the power it had given her, was gone.  
The other feelings - the guilt and the shame - settled over her like  
a heavy black cloak.

"I need to talk to Mulder for a moment, if he's available," Skinner  
said finally, and she stood up a bit straighter, turned her attention  
to Mulder, who was still leaning against the truck, still watching  
her. She waved for him to come over and he started across the lot.

"He's coming," Scully said, and she still couldn't force her voice  
down. She coughed to hide it.

"I'm glad to hear from you, Scully," Skinner said quietly, warmly.  
"I'm glad you're doing better."

She nodded absently as Mulder made it to the side of the booth. It  
was showing on her. His face looked worried as he gazed at her.

"Thank you, sir, for all your help. Here's he is." And she handed  
the phone off as she brushed by Mulder and headed back to the truck.

**

Mulder took the phone, turned and watched her retreating toward the  
truck, her gait hurried, her strides purposeful and long. Finally,  
he put the phone to his ear, still watching her.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled into the phone.

"Mulder, I need some information from you," Skinner said, and Mulder  
was relieved that he sounded all business. His normal tone made  
whatever had set Scully off seem less acute for some reason.

"Granger and I are working together now, working on a few things,  
trying to poke some holes in Padden's story about your whereabouts  
right before the bombing."

That sounded hopeful. "Okay," he said, pleased.

Skinner heaved in a deep breath. "There were two days you were gone  
from Richmond in January. January 12-13. A night you didn't come  
back to the hotel and a day you didn't show up for work. You  
wouldn't tell anyone where you were, not even Granger, and Padden's  
been all over that, thinking that's when you were meeting with Curran  
or making an explosives run or some such shit."

Mulder froze. The day Danny Conner had died. When Scully had  
called him, demanding to see him and he'd gone to get her at the bus  
stop in the darkness, driven her all the way to Afton Mountain to  
hide with her there for the night.

They'd made love that night, and again that morning. It was the  
last time they'd been that close, that free. He closed his eyes  
against the pleasure and pain of the memory.

"Well?" Skinner asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Well what?" Mulder asked, his voice far away. He watched Scully  
get her toiletries bag and a pair of pants out of the back and head  
for the store. Her face was down, and she was still moving at that  
strange, hurried pace. It was as if she were afraid someone were  
watching her and she needed to get inside as fast as possible.

"What the hell do you mean, 'well what'?" Skinner snapped. "I need  
to know where you were, Mulder, so we can get some confirmation on it  
and hopefully get rid of that piece of Padden's theory."

Mulder hesitated again. To tell where they'd been would risk Scully  
being reprimanded for leaving her undercover position to see him  
without authorization.

It meant possibly exposing their relationship. To Skinner. Padden.  
All of them. And after so long of managing to keep that a secret, he  
was resistant to giving that away. Especially now.

"Goddamnit, Mulder, answer me! The time for screwing around is long  
since over. Things couldn't get a whole hell of a lot more serious,  
for Christ's sake."

Mulder ignored him, thinking. The phone chirped at him and he  
pushed the last of the coins into the battered machine.

Maybe they wouldn't have to know she was there at all. Maybe the  
manager never saw her. He'd signed in alone, used his cover name,  
and paid for the room in cash. Maybe Skinner could get confirmation  
on his being there and clear those days up that way and they'd never  
have to know Scully's part in it at all.

He would have to risk it.

"I was on Afton Mountain in Western Virginia," he said finally. "A  
motel at the top of the mountain. I can't remember the name of it.  
But you can see it from the highway as you go over the crest. It's  
one of the few up there. I signed in as George Hale."

"You picked a hell of a time to go on a little vacation, Mulder,"  
Skinner grumbled.

"I had my reasons," he replied vaguely.

"Yeah, well let's just hope Padden doesn't think you were meeting  
Curran up there, that someone can vouch for the fact that you were  
alone that night. Or it could just compound your problems."

Mulder winced. The only way to confirm that was for Scully to vouch  
for him, to expose herself that way. And she'd been exposed enough.

So he said nothing in response.

"Granger's trying to find someone from the airline that can say you  
were at the airport gate while Fagan was being killed. We're working  
on it."

"I appreciate what you're doing for me, sir," Mulder said quietly.  
"I really do."

Skinner grunted. "Well, anyway, Scully knows where you're going.  
Call me from there in a week and I'll give you any new information  
I've got."

Mulder thanked him and said goodbye, hanging up the phone as he  
watched Scully coming back toward the car, her bunting top off now,  
just a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans and boots on now. Her hair was  
pulled back beneath her baseball cap again, her sunglasses in place.  
She went to the driver's side of the truck and climbed in, slamming  
the door behind her.

He peeled out of his jacket as he made his way back across the sandy  
lot. The sweatshirt followed, leaving him in a white t-shirt and his  
jeans. He scrubbed at his hair and beard as he went to the passenger  
side and climbed into the truck, tossing the extra clothes in the  
back on top of their makeshift pallets.

He looked over at her. Her fingers were white on the steering  
wheel, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. They were still for a  
moment, her gaze down in her lap as he watched her, his face creasing  
with concern.

Something was wrong. And he meant more than usual.

"What is it?" he asked gently.

"It's nothing," she said, and he'd never heard a voice so monotone  
and distant and cold. She didn't move. "I'm fine."

Though the anger she'd aimed at him earlier had not exactly been to  
his liking, he preferred it to this. She was a shell. He could  
tell by her voice, the way her shoulders drooped, her body slumped  
forward as though something had finally beaten the rest of her down.  
As though she'd somehow given up.

"What's happened?" He whispered it. "Talk to me, Scully."

She cleared her throat, and her face rose to look out the  
windshield. "We're going to New Mexico," she said quietly. "Help me  
find Farmington on the map and how to get there from where we are."

He shook his head. "That's not what I mean."

"Help me find it on the map," she continued in the same tone, as  
though he hadn't spoken. "And then you'll probably want to go ahead  
and get some sleep." She reached down and started the engine, the  
truck shaking to life.

Her voice was so strange. As though she were talking, but not to  
anyone else.

He pursed his lips, shook his head again as he looked away.

This was going to stop, he decided. He'd had enough of all of it.  
It was starting to hurt too much to continue like this.

He reached for the map, unfolded it roughly, slapping it down on his  
lap.

All right, he thought. I'll find Farmington.

And when we get there, some things are going to change.

He would make sure of that.

 

END OF CHAPTER 9. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 10.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 10.

 

* * * * * * * * *

OUTSIDE MEXICAN WATER, ARIZONA  
HIGHWAY 191/160  
2:37 p.m.

 

The silence had grown oppressive. It hung in the air of the truck's  
cabin like a spring snow cloud, cold and dark and ultimately  
unwelcome.

Mulder had tried to doze through the quiet after it became apparent  
that she wasn't going to speak to him. He'd leaned against the  
rickety door, his arms crossed over his chest, closed his eyes  
against the sight of the desert going by the window.

But his mind was busy - wondering what had crushed her so  
completely, hollowed her out. He thought about this, his mind  
turning it over.

Stewing. That's what he was mostly doing now. And it was  
impossible to sleep when he was doing that.

He'd glanced over at her every once in awhile, hoping to see  
something cross her face. Anything. He would even have welcomed  
tears at this point. Just anything to show that the person he knew  
was still there beside him. But her face remained blank, her mouth  
tight, her eyes focused on the road ahead of them. He did not have  
to see behind the sunglasses to know that her eyes were dull.  
Empty.

It was as though she were sinking below the surface of a lake,  
disappearing into black water right in front of him. And it had to  
stop before he lost her completely to the darkness.

He didn't care what he had to do, and he was prepared to do it. He  
didn't feel that there was a choice anymore.

So when he saw the signs for Mexican Water, the familiar blue signs  
of forks and spoons, the outlines of beds, he sat up straighter in  
his seat and turned to her.

"I need to stop," he said, his own voice sounding alien to him after  
so many hours of quiet.

She remained still for a few seconds, her eyes not moving from the  
road.

"I'll find a gas station," she replied, monotone.

He shook his head. "No, I mean for the night. I can't sleep in  
here today. I need a motel."

Now she did turn to glance at him, her expression perplexed. "But  
we could make it to Farmington by tonight. We could be there."

"I know," he replied. "But the night is catching up with me. We  
can get there tomorrow and it won't make that much of a difference.  
I think we've doubled back and gotten lost enough that those people  
are long since gone. I think it's okay to ease off a little bit."

She turned her face to the road, clearly against the idea. Then she  
exhaled and nodded, put on the turn signal to take the next exit,  
which had the sign for a motel beneath its number.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and now his nerves kicked up, a twinge of  
anxiety about their stopping. He shoved it down, hardening himself,  
getting prepared.

It's just Scully, he said to himself. No matter what state she's  
in, it's still her. And he knew her better than he knew anyone,  
didn't he? Even now?

He comforted himself with that thought, and it calmed him.

* *

The motel, called the Desert Rose, was a dingy-looking one-story  
sprawler, the kind of place that Mulder could tell by looking at it  
that it charged somewhere between $24-$30 per room and wouldn't have  
been renovated since the gas crisis.

He went into the office, got a key to a room near the end of the  
building and returned to the truck. Scully had already parked it  
near the end of the lot.

As he walked toward the truck, he saw she hadn't moved. She seemed  
to be staring at some point far away out the windshield, something  
hard and sad in her expression.

He moved into her line of sight and she looked at him. He could see  
her eyes dart to his face and then away behind the thick dark plastic  
of her glasses.

"You coming?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes," she replied, and pulled the keys out of the  
ignition, pushing the door open and dropping to the ground on both  
feet.

They hustled their suitcases into the room, the ritual dully  
familiar to him now. There were two double beds in this room, a room  
he'd chosen because of its location away from the rest of the few  
guests. The place looked like it had thin walls.

She tossed her suitcases onto the far bed, pulled her hat and  
glasses off, ran a hand through her hair. He knew what she would do  
now. He knew it all by rote after so many weeks. She would reach  
for her shampoo, head to the shower and stay in there for as long as  
she could.

But not this time.

He put his own suitcases down on the other bed as he watched her  
rummage through one of the bags. He watched her face in the large  
mirror over the bureau against the far wall, the blank set of it. No  
one was home.

She pulled out the shampoo, her bag of toiletries. Then he saw her  
pause, reach through the folds of things and draw something up. She  
stood with it in her hand, and he moved to the side to see what it  
was in the reflection.

The snowglobe he'd given her for Christmas. Somehow it had made it  
all this way with them. He swallowed. The sight of it saddened him  
for some reason.

She looked at it, deep in thought for a few seconds. He thought he  
saw her eyes shining, then it was gone. Then she dropped the toy  
back into the suitcase as though it burned her to touch it.

She turned for the doorway to the bathroom, toward the large vanity.  
The shower and toilet were a separate room off to the side. He  
walked around the bed as though he were going for the sink, got in  
between her and the bathroom just as she was heading there herself.

She tried to go around him, not looking at him. He took a step to  
the side and blocked her way again.

Now she did look up at him, clearly confused and a touch irritated.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"We're going to have a talk before you shower," he replied, looking  
down at her, forcing her to meet his eyes.

Her eyes were imploring for a fleeting second, then hardened again.

"No, we're not," she said flatly, and tried to push by him again.  
He took another step, his hands coming up and lightly gripping her  
upper arms. He felt her tense up in his grasp, though he was holding  
her as gently as he could.

She dropped the shampoo and the bag of toiletries, looking up at him  
in surprise. They thumped at his feet.

"Let me go." She said it so softly that he barely heard her, but  
the tone was filled with warning. She was looking at the center of  
his chest, avoiding his eyes.

"Will you agree to talk to me?" he asked, leaning down to try to  
look into her eyes again. She averted them, looking to the side.  
Color had risen in her cheeks.

"Will you?"

She swallowed, nodded once. "Yes," she said.

She stepped back and he let her go. She went to the small aisle  
between the beds and sat down on the corner of the one her suitcases  
were on, her arms across her chest, looking down.

"What is it." It came out as a statement, the same dead tenor to  
her voice.

He went to her, stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets,  
looking down at her. She looked like she were being punished by  
having to face him.

"How can you even ask me that?" he said, but there was no reprimand  
in his voice.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Scully. This has to stop." He fought to keep the emotion welling  
in him out of his voice. This was no time for it, he reminded  
himself fiercely. "We can't go on like this."

She was still for a moment, her hands folding in her lap. The left  
trembled and she covered it with the other.

"Yes, you're right," she murmured. "We can't."

All right, he thought, pleased. They agreed on that. There was  
room for progress, for forward motion, if they could agree at least  
that there was a problem.

"Okay then," he said, nodding. "We've got to figure out a way to  
get through this then. You've got to start telling me what you're  
feeling--"

"No."

The word stopped him cold, confusing him and throwing the relief  
he'd felt for a moment off kilter.

"'No' what?" he asked.

She drew in a breath, let it out shakily, her hands gripping each  
other as if for reassurance. "That's not what I meant when I said we  
can't go on like this."

He grew very still.

"What did you mean then?" he asked.

She looked to the side, pulled in another breath. "I've been  
thinking about it...for a long time. A lot today while I was  
driving..."

A wave of cold came over him and his teeth grit down.

"Don't say it, Scully." His eyes burned.

She looked up, the blank expression firmly in place. "I want us to  
separate."

He was struck dumb for a few seconds. His mouth opened and closed  
as he struggled for words.

"I hope you mean that you just want us to travel separately for  
awhile, though I think that would be a foolish--"

"You know what I mean," she interrupted softly. She might as well  
have shouted it, the effect it had on him.

He shifted on his feet, as though he wanted to move toward her. He  
held his ground though.

"I won't accept that."

"I'm not giving you a choice, Mulder," she said, returned her gaze  
to her hands.

He couldn't believe how calm she sounded. It angered him. He felt  
the feeling rising in his throat like acid.

"May I ask why at least?" The emotion leaked into his voice, and he  
could tell by the way her head came up that she heard it.

"I've been thinking a lot about this..." she said haltingly. "I've  
been thinking...that it's been over between us since...since this all  
happened. We just haven't faced the truth. We've run from it, just  
like we've been running from everything else." She pinned him with  
her gaze. "And I think it's time we both stopped running from this,  
at least."

He shook his head, looked toward the window. The tears were coming,  
anguish and anger and his own helplessness crushing into each other  
within him. "You're wrong," was all he could think to say.

"I'm not, Mulder." Her voice was steady and sad.

"I love you." The anger was rising now. He'd never said those  
words with as much of it behind them. He'd hoped he'd never have  
to.

She nodded. "And that's part of the problem," she said. "You love  
me too much. It's blinded you to the truth of what we've become.  
You can't see that there's nothing left. And you're so loyal that  
you would never leave me. So I'm going to do what's right for both  
of us and leave you."

"How can you say that?" he snapped, suddenly furious and loud.  
"How can you tell me that I love you too much? That I'm too loyal?  
How can you say those things like they're faults instead of what they  
really are? And you love me, too. Or have you buried that along  
with every other goddamned feeling you have these days?"

Her head jerked up and her eyes glinted with resin light. "I love  
what we USED to be, Mulder. Not what we are now. And what we used  
to be is NEVER going to be again. Can't you see that?" Her volume  
and tone were matching his now.

"That's only because you've made the CHOICE for that to be true,  
Scully," he replied hotly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she said, her hands going  
out to the sides as though she meant to rise.

"You won't talk to me! You've shut me out of your life! You've  
shut US out of your life!"

"You act like I've done all this on purpose," she replied.

"Part of you has," he snapped back, and she turned her face away.  
He could see her hands clench on the coverlet.

Good. She was getting angry, he thought. It was about fucking time.

He paced a couple of steps toward the window, ran a hand through his  
hair in frustration, spun on her.

There had to be a way to put this to right, he thought desperately.  
There had to be a way. Her emotions were close to the surface.  
Maybe he could drive them out of her, bring them up and out into the  
open...

Now if he could just get his own rage and hurt under control...

"What did Skinner say to you today?" he bit out.

She said nothing, and he could see her struggling with her control.  
She was breathing hard now, her cheeks blood red.

"What did he say?" He enunciated each word, loudly. When she  
hesitated again, he roared at her. "With what I'm about to lose here  
you owe me an explanation of what set this off at least! You OWE  
me!"

She didn't look up. "He knows about the rape," she said, her teeth  
clenched.

He stopped, his hands on his hips as he turned this new fact over  
quickly in his mind.

"It makes sense that he would find out," he replied. "There had to  
be forensic evidence in the apartment--"

"Don't you get it?" she shouted, bolting up from the bed and taking  
a step toward him. Her chest was heaving and there were tears in her  
eyes now. "Mulder, they ALL know. Padden. The task force. ALL of  
them."

"Nobody will think any less of you, Scully," he replied, matching  
her tone. "For God's sake, the man was huge--"

"That doesn't matter, does it?" she interrupted. "It doesn't  
matter how big he was, or if he was armed, or if he fucking beat me  
half to death, Mulder. It still HAPPENED."

"And what? You think you let it happen? You think it's your  
fault?"

"YES!" she screamed.

He took a step toward her, frustration rearing in him. "Scully, for  
Christ's sake--"

"That's what they'll all think, Mulder," she said, panting. "That's  
what every one of them will think. It's over! My credibility is  
over! That whole life is over!"

"How can you fucking say that?" he said, anguished she would even  
think such a thing.

"Have you LOOKED at me lately, Mulder?" she said. She held her  
hand up, the tremor worse with her emotions. "Look at this! You  
think they're going to let me near an autopsy bay with this? Or back  
out in the field?"

"You don't know that the damage is permanent, Scully," he began.  
Something in the back of his mind was growing concerned as her rage  
escalated. She looked wild now, her eyes wide.

"It's been months," she replied. "MONTHS. It's not getting any  
better and neither is anything else, as you well know..."

He winced, but didn't take the bait of that. His anger crested  
again, his frustration so long held in check.

"That's because you keep everything so bottled up, Scully," he  
shouted. "You don't talk about any of this until you're ready to  
give up on everything! Even on us!"

The look that came over her face now did frighten him. She didn't  
even look like herself anymore, something primal coming down over the  
features like a mask.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?" She waved her hand wildly at  
him. "WHAT?"

"I want to hear what you need to say," he replied. "You've got to  
SAY it, Scully."

"All right! Is this what you want to hear?"

And then it came, streaming from her in one long raging burst. He  
was stunned as the shouted words blasted images into his mind,  
searing him.

Her head slammed down on the floor, her vision swimming.

Hands on her, tearing at her robe, pushing it up her bare back,  
exposing her body to him as Fagan knelt behind her, hauling her to  
her knees.

A hand on the back of her neck, pinning her to the floor. The sound  
of a buckle. A zipper.

Knees holding her knees apart, his body crushing down onto hers,  
pushing into hers.

Her battered face pressed down, her shoulders straining as her hands  
were caught behind her back beneath him, blood from the wound in his  
cheek warm and wet on her shoulder where he rubbed his face, panting  
against her, rasping into her again and again.

Then dropping her in a heap, pushing her onto her side. Her body  
slamming hard into the floor.

Mulder cupped his forehead, cringing. Tears ran from his clenched  
eyes and her screaming continued. He took it all in, forcing himself  
into control. It was agony to him, the words. The knowledge.

Then, suddenly, something crashed against the wall.

His eyes snapped open and he saw the remnants of the cheap lamp that  
had sat on the bureau raining down on the pressed wood, the shade  
tumbling.

She was sobbing, covering her face with her hands, staggering  
towards the middle of the beds.

"Oh God..." she cried. "My God...why did you make me tell you that,  
you  
son of a BITCH..."

"Scully..." His voice broke and he went toward her. "Scully, I'm  
sorry. My God..."

What had he done?

"You son of a bitch..."

She reached down and swept the closed suitcase hard, sending it  
flying toward the bathroom. She reached down into her open bag,  
clothes flying.

Then her hand closed on the snowglobe. In an instant it was out of  
her hand, smashing into the mirror against the far wall, shattering  
the small globe and her image, and his as he made it next to her,  
into a hundred wet pieces. The sound was amazing.

He got hold of her then as she was going for the lamp on the night  
stand, grabbed her by the upper arms again, pulling her against his  
body.

"Okay, Scully, it's okay...shhhh..."

"NO!" she screamed. "Let me go!"

He struggled with her as she reached for the lamp again, pulling him  
along with her as she lurched forward. He moved his hand to get an  
arm around her waist, and it gave her enough room to spin around in  
his grasp, her hand coming up.

The blow caught him on the cheekbone, turning his face sharply to  
the side as the pain shot through his face, his eye. His arms  
dropped from her in surprise, his expression shocked.

She looked at him in horror, covered her mouth. Then she was crying  
again, her body going limp as she covered her face with her hands.

"It's over, Mulder," she keened. "It's over...just get out...get away  
from me..."

He took a step back instinctively, his face still hurting from where  
she'd struck him, the rest of him aching from her words. Tears ran  
freely down his face into his beard. His chest heaved as he swiped  
at them.

"Scully, don't do this. Please."

She shook her head.

"Go," she said, and it was little more than whisper of air.

He didn't know what else to do, what else to say. He backed away  
from her, going around the bed to where his suitcases lay still  
unopened. He lifted them both by the handles, turned to look at her.  
She did not look back.

"I'll be here in the morning," he said softly, and his voice shook.  
"We can separate on the reservation. You won't have to see me once  
we get there."

She jerked a nod, her breath hitching. She turned her back toward  
the door.

He turned and went out it.

 

* *

A few minutes later, inside his own room down a few from hers,  
Mulder dropped his suitcases on the double bed, staring around the  
empty room. The tears, which he'd managed to stop long enough to get  
the room, started again, and he crossed his arms over his chest as  
though he were holding himself.

He couldn't believe how his intentions could go so horribly wrong.  
He couldn't believe what he'd seen, a side of her he didn't even know  
was there, a side so filled with fury and pain.

He backed up against the closed door, a sob catching in his throat.

He let it come, his back sliding down the door until he was seated  
against it, his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide and frightened and  
filled with disbelief.

 

* * * * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 10 AND OF PART 1. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11 AND PART  
2.


	3. Chapter 3

********

 

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO  
MARCH 25  
6:03 a.m.

 

The gun felt good in his hands. Owen Curran gripped it easily, the  
weight and presence of it familiar and comforting to him.

He adjusted himself carefully on the hard bench seat of the tree  
stand, pulled his camouflage jacket closer around him. His  
companion, a 13-year-old inhabitant of the Sons of Liberty compound  
named Thomas, sat with his own rifle cradled in the crook of his  
elbow as he blew into his hands, warming his fingers, which were  
uncovered by the fingerless hunting gloves.

Neither had spoken for some time, Curran enjoying the quiet, both of  
them watching the clearing just a few dozen feet away for any sign of  
deer.

Curran had never been hunting like this before, and Thomas had  
instructed him on what to do as they'd climbed into the stand, snow  
falling from the ashen branches of the tree as they went up the rungs  
nailed into the trunk. They would sit with their Browning rifles,  
downwind of the clearing, and wait for a buck to come.

They'd been up there for a little over an hour, with no sign. Just  
a low note of wind coming every now and then through the thick forest  
they sat in. A snowshoe hare that had scampered across the field,  
almost hidden against the background of white. No birds. Nothing.

Thomas reached down and pulled something out of his rucksack he'd  
been wearing as they'd hiked through the woods to the stand - a  
thermos full of something warm. Tomato soup, steaming a cloud from  
the mirror surface of the interior. The boy poured some into the  
thermos' top, offered it to Curran.

"Aye, I'll have a bit. Thank you, Thomas." He took the cup, blew  
on the thick surface of the soup and took a sip, handed it back to  
the boy. Thomas did the same, and they settled in again.

Curran reached into his pocket and drew out a smoke and some  
matches. He put the cigarette in his mouth, struck the match,  
sending up a flare and the smell of sulfur. He took a long drag,  
blew it out.

Beside him, Thomas was looking at him, at the cigarette. Owen  
squinted a bit at him as he pulled in another breath of smoke.

"Can I have a drag?" Thomas asked, doing his best to sound tough.  
The boy's sandy blonde hair ruffled slightly in another push of the  
cold wind.

Owen smiled around the cigarette, shook his head. "Not good for a  
boy your age," he said, cupping the cigarette in his hand.

"You sound like my dad," Thomas replied, returned his eyes to the  
clearing.

Curran stopped at that, looked away from Thomas. The boy's words  
were like someone pushing on a bruise deep inside him. He couldn't  
help but think of Sean.

He wondered once again where he was, how he was. He wondered if he  
would see him again.

He stared off into the clearing, his blue eyes ice.

And then, he wasn't thinking of Sean any more. It was always the  
same when he thought of his son, of Fagan. And Mae. Especially Mae.  
The one person he had trusted completely in his life.

The image of Dana Scully entered his mind, fury coming soon after.  
He felt it flush through his system, a shot of heat. He took another  
drag on the cigarette, held it in until he could blow it out without  
it shaking from him.

His hatred was like a living thing inside him, clawing at him. The  
images he had of what he would do to her when he caught her flooded  
his mind.

Torture. He would kill her slowly. She would pay for everything  
that she had done to him with her body, a piece at a time.

And he would break her. He would control her before he killed her.  
He would find a way. She would beg him to kill her.

He let the breath out slow, smoke seeping from his lips as though he  
were on fire inside.

A rustle of movement caught his eye at the edge of the clearing, on  
the other side. He tossed the cigarette and raised the rifle quickly  
in one smooth motion, his eye looking through the scope. Beside him,  
Thomas did the same.

Curran looked at the creature. Soft tan sides. White chest. Large  
dark eyes glistening in the morning light as it cocked its head from  
one side to the other nervously. It took a tentative step further  
into the clearing, its hooves crunching in the snow.

Beside him, Thomas lowered his gun.

"It's a doe," he said, dejected.

But Curran did not lower his own weapon. He kept the scope trained  
on the doe's forehead, above the wide eyes, the ears pricked forward,  
soft and dark.

"Mr. Curran." Thomas said, perplexed and a little nervous. "You  
can't shoot a doe."

Curran ignored him, waited until the doe's face was in the  
intersection of the sights.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed, tearing through the woods and sending up a black  
cloud of crows from the tree tops. The rifle kicked back against  
Curran's shoulder, the force nudging a smile from him.

Thomas gasped beside him.

In the clearing, the doe staggered, her head thrown back. Her front  
legs buckled until she knelt, struggling to stand. The snow around  
her was spattered with red.

"Mr. Curran!" Thomas cried. "You shoot for the heart! You didn't  
have a clear shot!" He dropped his rifle on the wooden deck,  
shocked, nearly sending it over the edge, gaping at first Curran,  
then the doe. He reached over and touched the barrel of Curran's  
rifle.

"Get your fucking hand off," Curran snarled, jerking the rifle away.  
He bolted the rifle, then he sighted the doe again, fired.

This shot hit her in the chest, right at the triangle of white at  
the base of her throat. The doe's head flopped forward, digging into  
the snow as she toppled to the side, sending the snow into bunched  
piles around her, brown on red on white.

He bolted and fired again. And again.

"Mr. Curran, stop!" Thomas implored. "Please stop!"

Something in the boy's tone reached through the clamor inside him,  
the rage. Thomas' voice was high. Sounded younger.

He turned and looked at Thomas, found him crying, his chest rising  
and falling, fast as a hare's.

He lowered the gun, looked out at the clearing.

The doe lay in a twisted heap, blood seeping into the snow. She was  
still, the only movement her fur as the wind moved over it.

He put the butt of the rifle on the deck, pushed himself into a  
standing position. He bent over and retrieved Thomas's rifle, shoved  
it into the boy's hands.

"Get your things," he said, slinging his own rifle over his shoulder  
by the strap. "Let's go back."

Thomas looked up at him, his eyes wider. "You're not just going to  
leave her!"

"I fucking said we're going back!" Curran spat. "Now mind me. Get  
your things."

Thomas kept his eye on Curran as he closed up the thermos, zipped up  
the bag and shouldered into it, slung the rifle, then followed him  
down the makeshift ladder to the white below.

 

***********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION  
11:34 a.m.

 

Albert Hosteen sat on the concrete porch outside his double-wide  
trailer, rocking slowly in a rocking chair and nibbling on the end of  
his pipe. His eyes were on the long dirt road that connected his  
house to main road of the reservation, dark pools set into the  
pleasant crags of his face. His long white hair was pulled back,  
gathered behind his head with a rubber band, and it trailed down the  
back of his flannel shirt toward the low back of the chair.

The chair made a soft squeak as he moved, rocking himself slowly  
with one booted foot, deep in thought. He pulled on the pipe, most  
of the smoke leaving his mouth before he inhaled it. He really  
simply liked the taste of the tobacco, not the strength of the  
smoke.

They would be there today. He was sure of it.

He thought once again about the choice he had made.

When the man from the FBI had called him, asking him for a favor,  
there had only been a moment when he'd had trepidation at the  
prospect. There was a part of him that thought he had paid his dues  
to the U.S. Government, paid more than his dues for what he'd been  
given in return. His time as a Code Talker during the second World  
War had made him invaluable to them at the time, but then he'd been  
cast aside, paid a small pension for his efforts at creating a Navajo-  
based code that baffled the Germans and the Japanese and eventually  
helped the Allies win the war.

It all felt very distant to him now, that part of it. And they were  
not the memories that caused him the knee-jerk of fear when the man  
from the FBI had called him. It was the more recent ones -- the  
boxcar filled with bodies buried in a canyon a few miles away. Men  
in his house, the beatings, the efforts to kill the other FBI man for  
uncovering their secrets.

It had all solidified something he knew from his time with the  
government before -- that they were not to be trusted. That they  
would do anything they could to protect their lies and their plans  
for things he knew of but would rather not think of now. He was an  
old man. He would let it be.

He'd made one stand against them, though, before he'd returned to  
the reservation and the silence of all that he knew -- he'd memorized  
the more damning of the lies, the machinations, and relayed them to  
others, passing the story along like a folk tale. He'd done this to  
protect two people whom he'd somehow grown to trust.

The FBI man whose life he had saved -- this man Mulder -- and his  
partner, Scully, a woman he knew less of but whom he probably  
understood better than he did the man.

He'd protected them then because they were worth protecting. They  
both had a pure human sense of what was right. The woman even more  
than the man in some respects, because her actions were not tinged  
with the rage of his. After all, she had shot Mulder in an effort to  
protect him from snaring himself in the trap those men had laid for  
him. She was willing to do anything for what she believed in.

And Mulder, despite his personal anger over what was happening, had  
proven the same.

They both sought nothing more or less than the truth, and the truth  
was like a faith to Hosteen, the basis for all he did and knew.

So when the man from the FBI had called, telling him of the  
accusations against Mulder, the danger that Scully was in, he knew  
the right thing to do.

The door to the trailer banged open and his grandson, Victor, came  
out, stood next to his grandfather. Victor looked older than his 28  
years, age burned into him with days spent at the corral caring for  
the family's small herd of horses and sheep. He had deep lines  
around his eyes, much like his grandfather's, his hair -- jet black in  
a short cut that had grown out, ruffling lightly in the wind coming  
in off the valley around them.

"What makes you think they're coming today?" he asked, his eyes on  
the dirt road, as well.

Albert quirked a smile. "I feel it on the wind, in the trees, off  
the mountains...."

He said it hugely and dramatically, raising his arms for effect.  
Victor laughed.

"Yeah, right," he said, still laughing. He jammed his hands in the  
pockets of his Levi's. "Just one of your feelings, huh?"

"Hm," Albert said thoughtfully. "Yes. But it makes sense that they  
would come as fast as they could. Been running for a long time." He  
took another pull on his pipe, breathed out.

"I'm still not sure this is such a good idea, grandfather," Victor  
said, though his tone was resigned. They'd been having this argument  
for days.

Albert nibbled on his pipe, grunted softly. "It's necessary," he  
said cryptically. He couldn't explain that feeling, but he was sure  
of it somehow.

Victor, who was used to this kind of response from him, he knew,  
nodded and said nothing.

Movement caught Albert's eye down the highway and he grew very still  
for a moment, watching the car come around the wide curve that led  
into town. He could make it out from where he sat -- an SUV of some  
kind. Older model. He followed it as it approached.

When it reached the end of his road and took the turn, he stood,  
pulling himself up to his considerable height. He turned and tapped  
out the pipe, the glowing tobacco raining down onto the concrete and  
snuffing out. Then he lay it down carefully on the arm of the chair,  
faced forward again.

The truck came slowly, as though unsure of itself, bumping up the  
uneven road. Hosteen could make out two figures through the dirty  
windshield and recognized them as they pulled up next to Victor's  
pickup. Mulder was driving. His partner, Scully, was looking out  
the side window. Albert came forward as the truck's engine died into  
quiet.

Mulder exited first. He looked leaner than the last time Hosteen  
had seen him, bearded, his hair longer than he remembered. His eyes  
were guarded by sunglasses, which he removed as he came forward.  
Scully was just opening her door as Mulder closed the distance to  
him, his hand extended.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, and he sounded ragged. Albert looked into  
his face, saw his eyes rimmed with red, bloodshot. He hadn't slept  
in awhile; Hosteen was sure of that.

And there was swelling at the corner of his left eye near his  
cheekbone, a bruise forming beneath his lower lid.

"Agent Mulder," Hosteen replied, keeping his face neutral. He  
smiled kindly as he shook Mulder's hand. "So you made it, eh?"

Mulder smiled weakly. "Yes, we made it," he said softly. Scully  
came up, and Albert turned his attention to her as she stood a little  
off to the side behind her partner.

He swallowed, and his face fell as he looked at her.

So thin. Her face pale. Faint bruises around her neck. She, too,  
removed her glasses and Hosteen looked into her eyes, though her gaze  
darted from his as soon as she saw him studying her.

Something haunted in those eyes. Pain-filled.

Something terribly wrong.

He smiled to her, regaining his composure. "Agent Scully." He  
closed the distance between them and reached out. She took his hand  
almost reluctantly. The smile she gave looked like it would crack  
her face.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Hosteen," she said, distant.  
"Though I wish the circumstances were better."

Hosteen chuffed softly. "They were not so good the last time we  
met."

"That's true," Mulder said, and Hosteen turned to see him rubbing  
his shoulder absently, as though the gunshot wound Scully had given  
him suddenly hurt again. He smiled at Mulder faintly.

Then he stepped back so that he could face both of them again.  
Scully had made no move to stand next to her partner. Albert  
wondered at the distance, his head cocked as he looked at them both,  
gauging what he saw.

An awkward silence fell.

Hosteen was so distracted by the feelings rising off of both of them  
that he forgot Victor was even standing there until his grandson came  
forward himself, breaking the strange moment.

"I'm Victor Hosteen," he said, shook hands with Mulder and nodded to  
Scully. She nodded back. "One of you is going to be staying next  
door to me. There's an empty trailer there that we've put a few  
things in. It's got two bedrooms, so you could both stay there if  
you'd like, but we have another place, too, if that's not what you  
want."

Mulder seemed to look uncertain, wary. He glanced at Scully, who  
did not glance back. "How safe are these places?" he asked. "I  
mean...are they secluded enough that people won't see us there?"

Hosteen nodded. "Yes, both are secluded, Agent Mulder. No one  
comes out this way who doesn't live here -- all my family -- and no  
one here will tell anyone of your whereabouts. They consider it my  
business, my concern, and they will not interfere with that."

He studied the two of them again. Scully was looking away, as  
though the conversation didn't involve her at all. Mulder was  
chewing his lip nervously. He considered for a few beats, finally  
nodded. "We want separate places then, if that's not too much  
trouble," he said, and Hosteen heard the sadness behind the remark,  
though Mulder had tried to sound nonchalant and business-like.

Hosteen slipped his hands into his pockets, nodded as he began to  
understand.

Two things wrong, he thought. Something wrong with Scully herself.  
And something between the two of them. He could almost see the wall  
that separated them, thick and wide and made of stone.

And newly built. The tension in them was too acute for it to have  
been there very long.

"The other place to stay is a smaller trailer here a ways out behind  
my house," Hosteen said. "It's not much, either. One room. This  
one on wheels, you know. You'll have to shower at my house, but it's  
got propane. You can cook." He looked at Scully intently, his head  
tilting again. "Why don't you stay in this one, Agent Scully? It  
would be more...private. So much coming and going at my grandson's  
place with the livestock to care for."

She avoided his gaze again, nodded. "That would be fine," she said.

"It's about a mile and a half to my place from here, down the road,"  
Victor chimed in, and Hosteen could tell the agents' tension was  
making his grandson nervous. "I'm sorry it's not closer. I see  
you've only got the one truck, but I'll be happy to drive you back  
and forth if you want to leave the car here--"

"Agent Mulder can have the truck," Scully interrupted, looking away.  
"I won't be needing it."

Her meaning was clear. She wouldn't be going anywhere. Not even to  
see Mulder.

Victor was looking at Scully, then turned to the other two men.  
Mulder was looking down at the ground, scuffing a stone with his  
foot. Albert held Victor's gaze for a few seconds, nodded,  
reassuring him.

"That's fine," Albert said gently, trying to diffuse the crackle in  
the air. "Why don't I help you get your things and take you back  
there, Agent Scully? It won't be hard with both of us carrying the  
load."

Scully nodded and turned, going for the truck.

Now Hosteen chanced a look at Mulder. The younger man's eyes had  
yet to return from the ground, but his jaw was working, his face  
hard, fiercely controlled.

Yes, Hosteen thought. Whatever was between them, whatever had dug  
this chasm, was new, indeed. Mulder's pain was rising off him like  
smoke.

"Go on with Victor, Agent Mulder," he said, his voice soft. "I'll  
see to Agent Scully."

Mulder met his eyes then, and their gazes hung. Then Albert smiled  
that same half smile, and walked past him to where Scully was pulling  
her suitcases out of the back of the truck.

She didn't look at him as she slammed the back of the truck closed,  
replaced the spare tire on its hinge against the tailgate. He  
reached down and hefted the larger of the two suitcases, and Scully  
picked up the other and a sleeping bag.

"It's not too far," he said. "Come with me."

Scully nodded. "All right," she said, gestured ahead of them  
almost impatiently.

Albert's lip curled, but he hid it as he started toward the house.  
Scully followed close behind.

Neither she nor Mulder looked at the other as they passed, Hosteen  
noted. Mulder simply turned and went toward his truck, Victor  
hurrying to his own to lead the way down the road.

 

* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 11a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 11b.

* * * * *

 

LAKE McCONAUGHY  
OUTSIDE OGALLALA, NEBRASKA  
12:13 p.m.

 

Jimmy Shea hooked the minnow through the side, checked the sinker  
and the hook, then cast the small fish out into the water toward the  
shore of the black lake. There were submerged logs there, overhangs  
of branches, and he knew that there would be bass hovering just  
beneath the surface, dozing beneath the tree limbs and waiting for  
tap on the water, for food to come.

He'd read it all in the guidebook he'd bought in Belfast, The Best  
Fishing in All Fifty States, all this information about the bass and  
catfish that inhabited the lake. A quick stop at the tackle shop at  
the marina, $30 to rent the boat for the afternoon, and he was back  
out on the water, waiting for the fish.

He was just down from Ringgold, a tiny town northeast of the lake he  
now bobbed on, the place where Curran had last been sighted. He'd  
gotten the call from Rutherford two days ago, and had immediately  
packed up his things and headed west.

Shea had been all over the town, just as he'd been in Tyner, tracked  
down the lead that Rutherford had had leaked to him from someone on  
the NYPD who was following the case, an Irish cop with ties to the  
underground IRA in the boroughs. The lead was a motel on the  
outskirts of town where surveillance video had picked up someone  
matching Curran's appearance, and on looking at the still photos  
Rutherford had decided that the resemblance was close enough to  
warrant notifying Shea about it.

Shea had gone to the motel, shown pictures of Curran to a clerk who  
apparently wasn't aware of the manhunt and the manager's report of  
the sighting to the CIA and FBI. The woman had looked at the photo,  
said "yes," that Curran had indeed been there, but that it was weeks  
ago since he left. He'd stayed for a week, she said, and then, like  
everyone else who stopped in the tiny town, he'd moved on.

So Shea had checked the map in the pickup, called Rutherford on the  
cell phone and told him the news. Then he'd said he was going  
fishing until Rutherford called him again, that he'd be staying down  
in Ogallala in a cheap motel that had free cable and a restaurant.  
In other words, everything that Shea would need.

His back creaked as he leaned back on the small seat in the center  
of the boat, and he stretched. He was feeling his age on this trip.  
There had been times when he could hole up in a building for days,  
weeks if he had to, sleeping on floors or hunkered in corners. All  
those years of doing the work and then hiding out afterward, waiting  
for the heat to die down enough for him to vanish back into the  
woodwork.

All those assignments from James Curran. Those meetings at the  
lovely house near Ballycastle overlooking the sea. Curran's children  
growing up before his eyes over suppers. The smaller James, always  
so quiet and serene and growing more so as the years went by. Mae,  
the only girl, lovely and so full of life, always getting into  
everything.

And then there was Owen. Always at his father's side, listening in  
on the business at a chair at the table as he played with his toys.  
Some of what Shea and the elder Curran had discussed Shea felt  
uncomfortable talking about in front of the boy, but James didn't  
seem to mind. He seemed to want Owen to hear. The younger James was  
too introspective, destined from a early age for the priesthood by  
his disposition and his faith. And Mae was just a girl, after all.  
Owen was where James had his hopes for the family continuing in the  
Cause, the boy fascinated by everything his father said and did, a  
slight shadow that followed James almost everywhere he went.

Shea reeled the hook in slowly, giving the line a slight jerk every  
few rotations or two of the silver reel. Nothing. He pulled the  
bait in all the way and checked it, the boat drifting down a bit  
further along the grassy bank. When he saw a good shady spot, he  
tossed the bait back out, landing it right against the shore and  
giving it a gentle pull down the slope and into the deeper water.

He thought of Ruby back home suddenly, a vision of her as she  
bustled about in the morning around him, picking flowers from the  
garden as he drank his tea, read the news. Her coming to him in the  
shed behind the house where he worked his wood, bending it, smoothing  
it. She would fuss at him to come for dinner most nights. He got  
that lost in his work.

The small boat he'd been building was nearly done when he'd gotten  
the call, and he longed to get back to it.

He missed Ruby. The thought made him smile sadly. After all those  
years of losing friends, he'd thought himself beyond missing anyone  
or anything. But Ruby was somehow, thankfully, different. She  
proved that something was still alive within him, something that  
they'd been unable to completely take with the years of loss and  
sacrifice.

He'd thought he'd just been left with his resignation about the work  
\-- how it was never done, how many of the sacrifices seemed worthless.  
Resignation tinged -- and more often these days -- with something like  
regret.

For a moment he let the line go slack, the sinker bumping on the  
bottom.

Car bombs going off outside the UDR police station in Derry, bodies  
staggering from the raging hulks, screaming, engulfed in flame.

A faked road block outside Belfast, two women, 18 and 19. Heads  
shaved and shot in the temples for snitching and fucking the Brits.

Dozens of men at the point of impact, their stunned faces.

The glassy, open eyes of the dead. Their ghastly faces becoming so  
familiar to him when he was younger that he had difficulty, at times,  
telling them from the living.

Glass shattering in a hundred store fronts, distant siren wails.  
Bombs of Sinn Fein hate and carpenter nails.

He closed his eyes against it, turned his face up toward the midday  
sun, shining on the surface of the lake. He took a deep breath, let  
it out slowly. Then he opened his eyes. It was like waking from a  
bloody dream.

The boat had drifted further down the bank, his line dragging across  
the bottom. Pulling himself together again, he reeled the line in,  
pulling up mud and clumps of reeds. He cleared the hook, tossing the  
debris back into the water, laid the pole down in the boat and  
reached for the motor.

Enough, he thought, tired.

Enough for one day.

 

* * * *

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
5:34 p.m.

 

The sun was sinking, sending the sky into a pale gold over the bare  
landscape of scrubby trees, the rises of the mesas and buttes in the  
distance. Scully watched it as it fell, sitting on the small bed  
built into the side of the Winnabago trailer, her back against a  
cupboard that acted as a headboard. Her knees were drawn up against  
her chest, her arms looped around them, pulling them in close. She  
wore her shoes still, the soles on the blanket.

She didn't move as she looked out the window, as she felt the cold  
creeping in through the metal walls of the trailer, through the blue  
bunting top she wore, her jeans. She'd have to turn on the heater  
after all, she thought absently. There was nothing around her to  
hold any warmth. Just red stones, low dry bushes. And silence.

She did not think of Mulder. Or at least that was what she told  
herself. But trying so hard not to think of him was the same as  
thinking of him, she thought bitterly, and sank down further against  
the cupboard, sighing. She ran a hand up her forehead, pushing her  
hair out of her face where it had fallen, partially occluding her  
eyes and the view out the window.

She'd been alone the night before, but had been so numb that that  
fact had hardly seemed to matter. After Mulder had gone, she'd sank  
down between the two beds, her back against one of them, curled in on  
herself like a shell, and simply sat there. Occasionally, she had  
cried, tears silently streaking her face, but more often she'd just  
stared at the draped window, her mind spent and blank as snow.

She'd stayed like that until the light behind the thick curtain had  
faded from gold to gray to black, then she's risen, stiff, and  
slipped beneath the covers in the darkness, still wearing her clothes  
and shoes. She'd fallen asleep almost instantly.

Now here she was, finally truly away from everyone. This was what  
she had wanted all these weeks, she thought. To be completely alone,  
to have time to process everything that had happened in the past  
months.

But now that she had it, she was still as paralyzed as she'd been  
the night before, struck into an impasse with her emotions. It was  
as though, since her outburst yesterday, she'd rescinded her  
permission to feel anything at all. What she'd done yesterday had  
frightened her, the way she'd given in that much to the anger and  
pain. She did not want to do that again.

She didn't know who that person was, the one who had struck Mulder  
across the face with the hard blow, finally driving him away.

This was not to say that she thought what she had said to him before  
that had been a mistake. The things about their relationship being  
over. She truly felt that, and thought that it had needed to be  
said. She should be alone now, unattached. Perhaps permanently.

The old person she was could give herself that way. This new one  
could not.

The outburst about the rape, she was not so certain was the right  
thing to have done. But it was done now, and there was nothing she  
could do about it.

Weary, she rose and went the short distance to the tiny kitchen, the  
two burner stove. She opened the cupboards over the stove, found  
soup, crackers, rice. In the small refrigerator beside it she found  
a quart of milk, a few apples. Butter. A container of orange juice.  
A loaf of dark bread.

Hosteen had given her enough to feed her for the first couple of  
days, at least. She would not have to ask him for a ride to the  
market right away, and she was glad for that. She felt like a  
stranger to the outside world and did not relish the thought of  
joining it.

She closed her eyes.

Maybe if she stayed out here long enough, she thought, she might  
just disappear. Mulder could forget about her. They all would.  
Curran. Padden. Even Skinner. They would forget her and all that  
had happened to her.

And maybe she could, as well. She longed for forgetting more than  
she'd longed for anything in her life. For a kind of white amnesia.  
Maybe by forgetting, it would stop the hurting, the grief. Maybe the  
outburst yesterday to Mulder had been all the feeling she had left,  
and she could let it go, feel nothing.

Maybe that was who she was now, this new person she'd become defined  
by that.

And perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing in the end, she decided,  
and closed the refrigerator, no longer hungry for anything.

Distantly, she heard a sound, the first in hours. Footsteps coming  
down the road. A horse, walking slowly, the easy cadence of hooves.

She went to the flimsy door, peered out its small window. Her gun  
was nearby, balanced on the edge of a built-in table. She eyed it as  
the figure drew nearer.

Then she relaxed some as the horse and rider drew nearer. It was  
Albert Hosteen, sitting tall on a beautiful dapple-gray horse. He  
wore a denim jacket, a plaid flannel shirt beneath it, worn jeans and  
cowboy boots. There was a plastic bag slung by the handles to the  
horn of the western saddle he sat on. It swung slightly as the horse  
shifted its weight from one side to the other as it walked.

The corners of her mouth drew down. She was not in a good state for  
visitors. In fact, she couldn't foresee a time when she would be.

Still, she opened the door, stepped down onto the sand, walked  
toward him as he stopped a dozen feet from the trailer, looking down  
at her kindly.

"Hello," Scully said, forcing her face into something she hoped was  
friendly.

"Agent Scully," Hosteen replied, his face kind. "I came to see how  
you were getting on, and to bring you some dinner."

Scully looked down. "I'm doing fine," she replied. "And thank you,  
but I'm not hungry. And what you've left for me will be fine for a  
few days if I do want something to eat."

Hosteen smiled, dismounted carefully so as not to disturb the bag.  
"My wife, Eda, before she died, was a wonderful cook, you know," he  
began conversationally, reached up and lifted the bag off the saddle.  
"She could make fried chicken and fry bread like no one for miles."

"Is that so?" Scully said, being polite.

"Hmm," Albert said, turning to her. "She taught me how to make both  
of them before she died. Said I'd starve to death, me and the boys,  
if I didn't learn to do for myself."

He opened the bag, and warm, inviting smells came from it. Scully  
looked at the bag, then at him again uncertainly.

"Well, I made some this evening, some of both, and since my son Keel  
couldn't come to eat, I thought I'd come out and eat with you."

Scully tried to smile, but didn't quite make it. "Really, Mr.  
Hosteen, I'm just going to go to bed really early. I'm very tired  
and--"

"Can't let it go to waste," he interrupted. "And you really should  
try them. They're the best you've ever eaten, I promise." He smiled  
again. "Eda knew how to make them best."

He walked right past her now, and Scully stepped aside, watched him  
go to the cluster of wooden chairs outside the trailer, set just a  
few feet from a fire pit that had been dug into the ground beside the  
trailer. There was a pile of ragged branches and old lumber next to  
it, a collection of kindling. Hosteen eased himself down into one of  
the chairs, began looting through the bag.

Scully looked at him, not sure what to do. Finally she sighed. It  
was just a meal with him. And the sooner she ate it, the sooner he  
would most likely go, leaving her to the night of solitude she had  
envisioned.

So she went to the chair beside his, watched him pull out a plate  
encased in tin foil, which he handed to her. It was still warm. He  
took out another for himself, setting it on his lap. She did the  
same, removed the foil to reveal three pieces of chicken, the flat  
disc of a piece of fry bread, some beans cooked in heavy spice.

She had to admit -- it smelled delicious. Her stomach rumbled as the  
smell drifted around her.

He handed her a spoon from the bag, and she slowly took a spoonful  
of the beans and ate. They were as good as they smelled.

Hosteen was digging into his own plate, eating the chicken with his  
fingers, using the fry bread to mop at the beans. Scully followed  
his lead, though with a bit less enthusiasm.

They ate in silence. Off somewhere, a coyote called, another  
answering from the distance. The sky turned a bruised blue, then  
faded to black, lit by a canopy of starlight. Scully looked up at it  
as she finished off the last of the bread. The number of stars one  
could see in the desert always astounded her. It was like the sky  
was more star than night.

The only light besides the stars, the bulb over the stove that she'd  
left on. It threw a small yellow square around them from the window  
above their heads. Scully couldn't see Hosteen's face, but he set  
the plate down on the ground in front of him when he finished eating.  
Then she saw the flare of a match illuminate his face and eyes, the  
burning circle of the interior of the end of a pipe. The smell of  
sweet tobacco came toward her, and she found it somehow comforting.

She set her own plate on the ground, looked down at it, surprised to  
have left nothing but bones on her plate. Maybe she was hungrier  
than she had thought.

The quiet stretched again, and she let it.

"You look different than the last time I saw you," Hosteen said  
finally out of the darkness, the pipe's end growing brighter as he  
inhaled.

She looked up into the sky. There was a small light moving far up,  
drawing a curve across the night. It was a satellite, she realized,  
after watching it a few moments. Mulder had said you could see them  
in the desert if you looked hard enough, but she had never believed  
him. The sight of it and the memory of his words made her smile  
sadly.

"I imagine I do," she said at last. "It's been a long time since we  
last met." She paused. "It's strange though -- you look the same."

"Not had the years you've had, I should think," Hosteen replied.

She looked down. "Probably not," she said vaguely.

"Hard years." He inhaled again, the tobacco glowing like a dim  
bulb and then fading out.

She hesitated, unsure of the turn in the conversation. "Yes. Some  
of them," she replied cautiously.

Another long moment of silence.

"You were so young when I saw you last. Young in many ways." His  
voice was calming, serious but not probing. His words and the way he  
said them made a lump rise in her throat, and she swallowed it down  
hard.

"I'm not so young anymore," she replied, some bitterness coming in.  
"In many ways."

"Hmm," Hosteen said again. "Losing so much will do that to you.  
Seeing too much will do it. Pain will do it."

Something rose in her now at his words as she chafed.

"What do you know about what I've lost or seen?" she asked flatly.  
"Or about my pain?"

He shifted in the chair. "I know only what I see in front of me,"  
he said obliquely. "That's all any of us can know."

He was turned toward her now, though his face -- and hers, she knew --  
were lost in shadows.

"What do you see in front of you, Agent Scully?" he asked softly.  
His voice had grown quieter still, now like a voice but like a  
phantom of a voice.

She looked away, as though his eyes were penetrating her through the  
darkness.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, and recalled saying the same  
words to Mulder the day before. She realized what a lie they were as  
she said them to Hosteen, a lie she'd hidden behind with Mulder and  
that she was using again to hide from this man, as well.

"I think you do," Hosteen countered, his voice gentle. "I think you  
see a lot in front of you, but you don't want to see it. And I think  
you want -- and need -- to see more, but you can't right now. But  
part  
of that is because you don't know where to look."

She said nothing for a long moment, emotions rising. Sadness.  
Anger at the presumption of his words. A strange feeling of exposure  
and vulnerability at being so easily read.

She bent to get her plate, stood suddenly.

"Yes, well..." she said stiffly, turning toward him. "Thank you for  
dinner. You're right. It was excellent. But I think I'm going to  
go off to bed now."

She saw the small rain of embers as he tapped out the pipe. Then  
the creak of the chair as he stood with his own plate. His lean form  
threw a thin shadow through the box of yellow on the ground from the  
window. She could see his face now, his kind smile, but she could  
not hold his gaze.

"If I think of a place where you can look, I'll let you know," he  
said, not seeming to mind her brush off. "I'll think on it."

She looked away, a feeling of vulnerability coming over her. "All  
right," she said, awkward. She didn't know what else to say to  
that.

He nodded, reached for the bag on the ground and placed both their  
plates into it. "You are welcome, " he replied. "Sleep well, Agent  
Scully."

"You, too, Mr. Hosteen," she said, and watched him disappear toward  
the dark shape of his horse, who had waited patiently in front of the  
trailer just outside the light the entire time. She'd almost  
forgotten the animal was there.

With a squeak of leather, he mounted, turned the horse around and  
disappeared into the dark.

Scully stood there for a long moment, staring up at the blanket of  
stars. Then, tired in more ways than she could name, she turned and  
went back into the trailer, closing the door for the night.

 

* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 11b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 12.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 12a.

*********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
MARCH 30 (FIVE DAYS LATER)  
8:24 a.m.

 

The sounds of a truck engine starting up, of sheep bleating in the  
distance, the deep sound of horses, punctuated by an occasional high  
call from one of the stallions. All these sounds had grown strangely  
familiar to Mulder, his usual wake-up call here on Victor Hosteen's  
land.

He lay beneath the open window, clad only in green boxers, his lean  
body lit by the gold morning light. Though they were a ways away from  
him, he could still hear the Hosteen boys calling back and forth,  
their rich laughter. They laughed a lot.

He rolled onto his side, his back to the window now, drawing his  
knees up in the twin bed. It was the only way he could lay without  
his feet dangling over the end, which made him feel like a man  
sleeping in a child's bed. It didn't bother him too much, though.  
After all, he'd spent the better part of the five days in this bed,  
alternately sleeping and staring at the wall or the window, listening  
to the men work in the distance in the pens and corrals.

When he wasn't in the bed, he'd spent some time sitting on the  
battered sofa in the living room area off the kitchen, watching the  
lousy reception on the television, or, more often, out on the front  
patio in a white plastic chair. The patio faced Victor's place,  
several hundred yards away, and beyond that, the stable, which he  
could always spot by the cloud of dust that seemed to linger over it  
and the smell that wafted his way if the wind was right. He didn't  
mind the dust or the smell. He wasn't up to minding much of anything.

He drew in a deep breath, eased it out, reached up and ran a hand  
over his chest. He was cold, the spring morning here in the desert  
bright but chilly. Rather than pull the covers over himself, he sat  
up instead, reached down onto the floor where his jeans were still  
hunkered, right where he'd stepped out of them the night before. He  
pulled them on as he stood, rubbing at his beard as he made his way  
down the narrow corridor toward the kitchen.

Water in the kettle, the squeak of the flimsy faucet as he turned it  
off. The popping of the stove as it lit, the blue flame bursting  
beneath the kettle's shining surface. He stretched, shivering, his  
bare feet cold on the linoleum floor.

He supposed he should get a shirt, he mused absently, then discarded  
the thought. He stood before the stove until the kettle began its  
slow whistle, then poured the water into a mug for the Taster's  
Choice he'd found in the cabinet. The date on the stuff was two years  
ago. He didn't think, wincing at the bitter taste, that it being more  
fresh would make a difference.

He shuffled through the living room, breathing in the smell of dust.  
The place had been shut up for months before his arrival, the former  
home of one of Albert Hosteen's brothers. The man had died of cancer,  
and the trailer seemed to carry the melancholy of a long illness with  
it.

Outside on the patio, Mulder took his seat in the flimsy chair,  
crossing his legs in front of him at the ankles, crossing his arm  
across his ribs as he sipped the coffee. He watched the shapes of  
horses, small at this distance, move around the corral, men milling  
back and forth.

He wondered how she was, what she was doing. If she was awake yet,  
what she was thinking as she started her day. He'd seen nothing of  
her or of Albert Hosteen since he'd left the house all those days  
ago, doing his level best not to look behind as he'd driven away.

He was still trying his best not to look behind. It hadn't worked in  
the truck as he'd bumped after Victor down the road, and it wasn't  
working now, either.

He reached up and rubbed his eyes roughly, the beginnings of a  
headache coming over him already. He was so tired and he felt useless  
and ancient.

He heard a soft noise off to his right and he jerked his head  
around, instantly alert. When he saw the source of the sound, he  
relaxed, however, simply stared.

The dog was back.

Mulder had first noticed it on the first morning he'd been there, a  
charcoal-colored hound of some kind that skulked around the perimeter  
of the property. It was so thin he could count its ribs even from a  
distance, see the sores on its sides. It walked tentatively, each  
step hesitant as it watched Mulder watching it. Its tail was firmly  
curled between its legs, its ears and head down. It would linger for  
a few minutes, and then scurry away, disappearing into the scrubby  
brush behind the house.

Mulder took another sip of the acrid coffee, watching the dog. It  
had stopped as he'd turned toward it and was watching him with its  
dark, frightened eyes. Mulder held still for a moment, then let his  
free hand slowly drop over the arm of the chair. He snapped his  
fingers.

"Come here," Mulder said gently, and the dog took a step to one  
side, then the other, seeming to grow smaller with the sound of his  
voice, closer to the ground.

"I won't hurt you," he continued softly, snapped his fingers again,  
made a small whistling sound. The dog's ears pricked for a second at  
the sound, as though it recognized something familiar in it. It took  
a hesitant step forward.

"That's it," Mulder said, inordinately pleased for some reason.  
"Come here."

The dog licked its lips. A small chirp of a whine came from it.

Moving slowly, Mulder put the coffee cup down on the ground in front  
of him, rose and went into the trailer. He kept an eye on the dog,  
which had taken a few steps back as he'd risen but did not run away.

Inside, Mulder fished in the cabinets for a bowl, settling instead  
on a silver pot. He filled it with water at the sink, then carefully  
carried it back out the front door.

The dog was still cowering a few dozen feet away, eyeing him warily.  
Taking small, slow steps, Mulder moved toward it, the pot in front of  
him.

"Want some water?" he asked softly, taking another step, then  
another. The dog backed up a step. "I've got some water. I'm not  
going to hurt you. I just have some water...."

About 15 feet from the dog, Mulder squatted down and placed the pot  
on the ground. Then he stood and began to back up, moving just as  
slowly.

The dog eyed him and the pot alternately, its ears flat against its  
head in fear. It whined again faintly.

When he'd returned to his chair, Mulder picked up his coffee cup and  
crossed his arm over his chest again, shivering again. He took a sip,  
pretending to ignore the dog now, though he was watching it out of  
the corner of his eye.

It got even closer to the ground now, licking its dry lips again,  
and began to creep toward the pot, watching Mulder the whole time.  
About five feet away, it was on its belly, crawling now.

Mulder sipped his coffee, waiting, barely breathing.

Finally the dog reached the pot, sniffed, pressing its nose over the  
edge. Then, its eyes still on Mulder, it began to drink.

And, for the first time in days, Mulder smiled.

**

Albert Hosteen watched all this with interest from the back of his  
horse, up on a rise beside the trailer, a small smile on his face, as  
well. He gave the dog a few moments to drink and then started down  
the rise toward the trailer, now visible to Mulder on the patio,  
though Mulder was watching the dog.

Suddenly, the animal stood upright, catching sight of Albert on his  
horse. Instantly it shot off, running behind the trailer and into the  
desert beyond. Mulder watched it go, then turned his head to see what  
could have startled it and saw Hosteen. Albert couldn't miss the  
hopeful look on the younger man's face as Mulder stood, walking to  
the edge of the patio nearest him, his free hand jammed in his pocket  
for warmth.

Hosteen maneuvered the horse up in front of him, stopped.

"Hello, Agent Mulder," Hosteen said softly. "I see you have met Bo."

"Bo?" Mulder replied, clearly confused. "Oh, you mean the dog?"

"Yes," Albert said. "My brother's dog. Nobody has been able to get  
near him since Larry died. He just hangs around the house as though  
he is waiting for Larry to return."

"Ah," Mulder said.

Albert dismounted now, stood before Mulder. "You look cold."

"Yeah, I am a little, I guess," Mulder replied, embarrassed. "I just  
woke up and was too lazy to find a shirt."

"Huh," Hosteen replied. "Yes, I hear you do not do much with  
yourself here. Victor said he rarely sees you and that you never go  
anywhere."

Mulder looked down. Around the fringe of his beard, Hosteen could  
make out a faint glow as Mulder blushed. "I guess I don't, no," he  
mumbled. He looked around, a sad expression on his face. "Where would  
I go?" His voice sounded very far away as he said the last.

"Not good for you," Albert replied. "You should get out. Busy  
yourself with something." He gestured toward the corral and Victor's  
house in the distance. "Victor can always use an extra hand with the  
livestock. You should let him put you to work up there."

Mulder shifted from foot to foot. "I'm afraid the closest I've come  
to a sheep is a sweater," he said, and Albert laughed. "And I've  
never ridden a horse."

"Easy to learn. You will be good at it. I can feel it." He looked  
down at the cup of coffee in Mulder's hand. "You have more water on?"

Mulder seemed struck out of his somber mood. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I  
should have offered. Please, come in."

Albert followed him into the house, the screen door banging shut  
behind them. Mulder put the kettle back on.

"I'm just going to go get a shirt," Mulder said, awkward. "I'll be  
right back." And he disappeared down the hall.

Hosteen sat on the couch, looking around. He hadn't been back in  
this place since just after his brother's death. There just hadn't  
been any need. He smiled looking at the beat-up recliner in front of  
the television, remembering nights here with his brother over the  
years. The place had always been filled with laughter, a warm place.

He hoped some of that still remained for the man living in it now.

The kettle was already whistling again when Mulder returned in a  
dark blue sweatshirt, his boots on. Albert watched him pour another  
mug of coffee and then come forward to the living room. Mulder handed  
it to him and sat down in Larry's chair, perched on the edge, clearly  
nervous.

Hosteen sipped the coffee, made a face. "This is awful," he said,  
bemused.

"Yeah," Mulder said, a small embarrassed laugh coming from him.  
"Yeah, it is. Sorry about that."

"Tastes like ashes," Hosteen said, and took another sip. It wasn't  
so terrible the second time around.

Mulder was looking into his own cup, then around the room, glancing  
at Hosteen every now and again.

"You want to know how Agent Scully is doing," Albert said finally.  
"I can see it on your face."

Color rose around Mulder's beard again, but he tried to shrug, sound  
nonchalant. "Yeah, I had wondered how she was holding up," he said,  
took a draw from his mug.

Hosteen smiled a bit at his attempt at lightness, when it was clear  
from his body language he was more than anxious for news.

"She is doing all right, I would say, considering," he replied.

Mulder looked up at him now. "Considering what?" he asked, his voice  
edgy.

"Whatever it is she has been through," Albert replied, echoing  
Mulder's previous casual tone. "She will not speak to me about it, of  
course, but I know something must have happened."

He did not say that he had already guessed what that something was,  
choosing to keep that bit of information to himself.

"How often do you see her?" Mulder asked, changing the subject --  
which only confirmed Hosteen's suspicions further. Mulder was still  
trying to sound casual, as though they were discussing the sheep or  
the sagebrush or the weather.

"A couple of times a day," he replied. "She comes in the morning to  
shower and I see her briefly. Then I come to her with dinner every  
night."

Mulder looked surprised. "And she *eats* it?"

Hosteen smiled. "She is too polite to refuse, so yes. We sit and  
have a little talk while we eat. She tells me things sometimes.  
Sometimes she is quiet."

Mulder gazed down at the floor, turning the mug in his palms. "I'm  
glad she's talking to someone," he said, his voice tinged with  
sadness. "Even if it's just 'sometimes.'"

"Hm," Hosteen replied, taking another sip of the bitter coffee. "She  
will talk more, I think, as time goes by. I think there is something  
in her that wants to in a way. But her nature holds her back. She is  
warring against her nature right now." He looked at the other man  
deeply. "I believe you both are."

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked guardedly. "How am I warring  
against my nature?"

Hosteen smiled faintly. "You are used to *doing.* You are looking  
for something to *do* when this is not about doing. It is about  
letting things happen." He cocked his head, watching as Mulder looked  
away as though caught.

"Do you know anything about geese, Agent Mulder?" he said after a  
beat of silence.

Mulder turned back to him, his expression puzzled. "Geese? Um...I  
think they mate for life. I remember hearing that somewhere. But  
that's all I know."

"You know how geese fly in formation? That 'V' across the sky?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes."

"Well," Albert said, leaning back a bit on the sofa. "When a goose  
becomes hurt in some way, sick or shot from the sky, it will fall out  
of the formation. And when it falls, the goose in front of it and the  
one behind break away from the group and follow the injured goose  
down to the ground. Then they both stand in vigil over the injured  
one, waiting for it to regain its strength or for it to die.  
Sometimes it takes a long time for one of those two things to happen,  
but the geese continue to wait, no matter now long it takes."

"What do they do if it dies?" Mulder asked softly.

Albert sipped his coffee. "If the injured one dies, the two geese  
will take off again, finding another flock to fly with until they  
catch up to the group they came from." He paused. "But if the goose  
lives, they help it take off again, putting it in the middle of them  
once again so that there is less wind for it to push through, making  
the flying easier, until they find their own flock once again and  
rejoin the formation."

Mulder stared into his coffee cup, and Hosteen could see him turning  
it over in his head.

"We are waiting, you and I," Albert said gently. "And healing takes  
time."

The other man looked up at him and their eyes met. Hosteen nodded,  
smiled kindly. Mulder nodded in return.

"All right," he murmured. "I'll try. To be patient."

Hosteen nodded. "I should go," he said, and stood now, placing the  
mug on the table in front of him. Mulder stood, as well, and together  
they walked out the door, out onto the patio where the grey horse was  
waiting, its white tail swishing absently. Albert touched its soft  
nose gently as he walked around, mounted slowly.

"Hey," Mulder said from the ground. "How do you know that stuff  
about the geese, anyway? There aren't any geese here, are there?" He  
indicated the desert around them.

Albert smiled. "'Animal Planet,'" he said, smiling wryly. "Eight  
o'clock on Wednesdays. Victor got me satellite TV a few months ago."

Mulder barked a laugh at that.

"I will check back on you in a few days," Hosteen said, turning the  
horse to the side. "In the meantime, go help Victor with the horses.  
Always good to be around animals. And people, too." He winked and  
Mulder smiled back.

"Okay," Mulder said. "They might not like having me, as useless as  
I'll be, but I'll give it a shot."

Hosteen nodded. "Goodbye, Agent Mulder."

"Goodbye, Mr. Hosteen."

Then Albert nudged the horse in the side gently, turned and headed  
back home.

 

**********

PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO  
9:02 a.m.

 

Mae Curran awoke slowly from the dream, a dream where she was  
running through a field, Sean in front of her, laughing as he enjoyed  
his game. She'd been trying to get him to stop for hours, it seemed,  
watching him pull further and further away from her as he ran.

The dream was so real that when she finally opened her eyes,  
shielding them from the morning light coming through the open window,  
she wondered if he'd really gotten away from her, and had an  
irrational urge to rise and check on him in his small room just down  
the short hallway.

She looked at the other side of the bed, the pillow rumpled and the  
covers turned back, the only evidence that Joe had been there the  
night before. That and the fact that she was wearing his t-shirt,  
loose on her, covering her otherwise nude body.

And the faint musk smell of their lovemaking lingering. She breathed  
it in, sighed it out. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, an  
expression she was unaccustomed to but was finding came more  
naturally these days.

She was in love and was helpless against it.

God help me, she thought, and closed her eyes, letting the smile  
come now, felt it blooming over her.

She lay in the sunshine for a long time, letting it warm her skin,  
her arms thrown over her head languidly on the bed of her long thick  
hair on the pillow.

Then the dream came back to her, the memory of the panic she felt  
running after Sean, pleading for him to stop as he pulled far out in  
front of her, laughing...

It bothered her on some visceral level she couldn't quite put her  
finger on. It was enough to strike her out of her morning ease and  
she sat up, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and pulled on a  
pair of sweatpants from the shabby dresser in the corner of the small  
room.

She padded into the hallway, down a few feet to Sean's room, its  
door closed. She knocked.

"Sean?" she called. She didn't like the silence from within one bit.  
She pushed the door open without waiting for a response.

Sean looked up from the floor where he was sitting, a piece of paper  
on a wide book on his lap. Crayons and markers and pencils were  
spread out around him, and he looked up, his hand stopping its  
movement across the sheet where it had been leaving a trail of cobalt  
blue across the surface.

"What's wrong, Aunt Mae?" he said softly, fear in his voice.

She relaxed, realizing that her tone when she'd said his name had  
been frightened, as well, and had triggered the response in him. "No,  
no," she said hurriedly. "There's nothing wrong. I was just worried  
when I didn't hear anything from you in the house."

"I was coloring my picture," Sean replied, and his hand started  
moving again, the faint dry sound of the crayon filling the room.

She entered completely now, went to him, sitting beside him on the  
floor. "What are you drawing then?" she asked with interest. "Do you  
mind if I see?"

He shook his head, moved the book over a bit to allow her a better  
view. A red ship floating on a jagged blue ocean, dark vague shapes  
in the water. There were several stick-like figures on the boat,  
three at the bow, two tall and one short. One of the tall ones had  
bright yellow hair, one long black, and the smaller figure had hair  
done in a reddish brown. The burnt sienna crayon lay nearby next to  
the yellow. Sean was coloring the ocean now, cerulean blue.

"That looks like Joe's boat, doesn't it?" Mae said, scooting closer.  
"Red on the sides like that."

Sean nodded, seeming pleased that she'd guessed what the drawing  
was. "Aye," he said softly. "It is Joe's boat."

"Who are all these people then?" She pointed first to the ones at  
the back, all bunched together, their hair all dark.

"Those are the other fishermen."

She put her finger on the figure with the long dark hair. "And that  
looks like me, eh?"

He smiled and nodded, his small finger going to the yellow-haired  
one. "That's Joe," he said, moved his finger to the smaller person.  
"And that's me right there."

"Mmmm, I like the thought of us all on the boat," Mae said. "That  
would be fun. We should do that one day. Get up really early and go  
out with Joe. Would you like that?"

Sean smiled wider, but kept his eyes down. "Aye," he said softly.

Mae moved behind him, smiling, reached over to tickle him, causing  
him to pull his arms down to his sides to protect his ribs as he  
laughed.

She curled her arms around him, pulling his back against her front,  
her legs bracketing his. He leaned his head back beneath her chin.

"What are these dark things in the water?" she asked, pointing at  
the vague shapes. "Maybe seals? Like the one we saw the other day?"

He shook his head solemnly. "No, they're sharks," he said softly.  
"Big sharks."

Mae's brow furrowed at the thought of that. "Well, that's a scary  
thing, isn't it?" she said, trying to stay light. The image bothered  
her, though. The fact that he would come up with that in an otherwise  
pleasant picture.

Sean only nodded, went back to coloring his ocean.

As he did so, Mae suddenly noticed the room seemed very hot and  
sweat broke out on her forehead, a cold prickle. Then, just as  
abruptly, her stomach lurched.

"I'll be right back, Sean," she said quickly, scrambling to her feet  
and going out the door, across the hall to the bathroom, barely  
making it to the toilet before her stomach heaved again and she  
vomited, the force of it sending her to her knees. It continued for a  
few moments.

"Jesus," she breathed when she was finally finished, laying her  
forehead against the edge of the seat as the toilet flushed. She was  
holding her stomach. She felt like she'd pulled every muscle in her  
belly.

"Aunt Mae? You all right?" Sean said from the door to the bathroom.  
She turned her head to the side, her temple on the seat now, her  
breathing heavy.

"Aye, Sean, I'm all right," she said, trying to sound reassuring.  
She pulled herself upright as she said it, going to the sink.

"But you're sick," the boy said, unconvinced.

"I'm okay," she said again, turning on the faucet and running cool  
water into her cupped hands. She splashed water on her face, dabbed  
with a cloth, then reached for her toothbrush. She turned to Sean  
again, who was still watching her with worried eyes.

"Go on back in and finish your picture, then get ready and we'll go  
to the beach, all right?"

"Okay," Sean said quietly, and went back into his room.

Mae looked at herself in the mirror, color high on her cheeks. She  
put her hand on her stomach again. The nausea seemed to have passed,  
leaving her just feeling shaky and a bit overwarm.

Must be a little bug, she thought, brushing her teeth. With some of  
the things they ate around town, she was surprised this didn't happen  
more often to both of them.

She closed the door now, stepped out of her sweatpants and stripped  
off Joe's t-shirt, breathing in his scent. Then she turned on the  
shower and stepped into the steaming water, light pouring in through  
the window and settling on her as she washed herself clean.

**

9:46 a.m.

 

Tom Lantham held the picture up again into the face of the bone  
dealer, his nose wrinkling at the smells of bleach and rot around  
him. He and Rudy Grey were standing next to a pile of cow skulls that  
extended over his head, a cloud of huge black flies hanging over it  
as the bone baked in the early morning sun. There were rattlesnakes  
coiled to strike on the shelves behind the bone dealer's head.  
Armadillos. Roadrunners.

"You sure you haven't seen this woman and this boy?" he asked again,  
this time more slowly. The man -- Paco, short with a dark moustache  
that trailed down around his mouth -- seemed to have a grasp of  
English, but he was so reticent Lantham was having a hard time  
figuring out if he didn't understand him, or just didn't want to  
respond.

"No, nobody like that, no," Paco said stiffly.

He's hiding something, Lantham thought. The man was too simple to be  
a good liar, and Lantham had a lot of experience with people like  
that in his line of work.

"Uh huh," he said, putting the picture back in his shirt pocket.  
God, he wished he still smoked. These people were driving him crazy.

Grey was toeing the sharp nose of a skull on the bottom of the pile,  
threatening to send half the stack down on them, and Lantham grabbed  
his arm, pulling him away.

"Let's go," he said gruffly, then turned to Paco.

"Thank you, seor," he said with false graciousness. "You've been a  
huge help."

"Any time, gringo," Paco returned, a shit-eating smile on his face.  
Lantham scowled and he and Grey walked away, into the crowd of the  
marketplace.

"What do we do now?" Grey asked, hurrying to keep up with Lantham.  
Grey was sweating in his sportsjacket, which he wore to hide the  
pistol at the small of his back. Lantham wore one, too, for the same  
reason. "Nobody has seen them here at all."

Lantham quickened his pace. "No, Rudy, they've *all* seen them.  
Those two are here somewhere. I know it." He gestured toward the end  
of the marketplace, where the view opened up onto the beach beyond.

"Let's go to the beach and see if we see anyone. Maybe we can find  
someone there who'll fess up."

They wove their way through the marketplace, through the produce  
carts, the fish market area smelling of fresh catch, the stands  
selling firewood and fireworks for the beach.

They'd been driving for days, following sparse leads as they went.  
Down through Santa Ana and Bonacita, to the coast to Puerto de la  
Libertad and then north. There had been a definite sighting of them  
at a town called San Luisito, where an old man had told them that if  
foreigners passed through that town, they were most likely on their  
way to Puerto Peasco, which he called "El Escondite," or "The Hiding  
Place."

Lantham had shown the picture of Curran's sister and the boy to half  
the town, it seemed, and everyone had the same quick negative  
response. Too quick.

They made their way to the end of the market and climbed the dunes  
that banked the shabby beach. There was trash blowing in the breeze  
off the ocean, the smell of a dead fish wafting in the wind. A few  
people had staked out spots on the sand, soaking up sun and listening  
to Mexican music on portable radios.

Lantham put his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene, his face  
dyspeptic. Grey was red-faced behind him, looking at the waves.

Lantham checked out each knot of people, wondering which to approach  
first. Then something caught his eye.

A young boy at the edge of the ocean, squatted down, picking through  
things on the sand. A woman stood next to him, long hair blowing in  
the steady breeze.

He reached back and slapped Rudy in the gut. "Come on," he said,  
keeping his eyes on the pair on the beach as though they might  
disappear if he looked away.

Together, he and Grey made their way across the beach, heading for  
the waves. They were walking parallel to the two, not directly toward  
them. Lantham just wanted to get close enough to get a good look at  
their faces.

They stopped at the edge of the ocean, where the sand gave way to  
lava-like rocky tidal pools.

"Don't look at them," Lantham said below his breath as the woman  
turned and started down the beach toward them, the boy in tow. Seeing  
them, the woman headed off at an angle towards the center of the  
beach to give them a wide berth.

But she got close enough for Lantham to see her face. Hers and the  
boy's, both.

"It's them," Lantham said quietly, reaching down to pick up a shell,  
which he skipped into the ocean, trying to appear as touristy and  
easy as he could given his attire. Rudy obediently kept his eyes  
forward, his hands in his pockets.

Lantham watched them as they went up the beach, up toward the dunes  
and the street beyond. It would arouse too much suspicion to follow  
them until they reached the street.

These things had to be handled delicately. Especially at this phase.

He looked down, biding his time as Mae and Sean Curran climbed the  
dunes, saw a tiny purple crab standing on the rocks, one small and  
one huge claw upraised in warning, its black eyes shining like beads.  
He toed at it absently until it scurried away into the nooks of the  
rock and disappeared.

 

***********

 

END OF CHAPTER 12a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 12b.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 12b.

 

************

THE OVERLOOK MOTEL  
AFTON MOUNTAIN  
AFTON, VIRGINIA  
1:46 p.m.

 

Paul Granger pulled into the parking lot of The Overlook, a two-  
story building perched on the edge of Afton Mountain, its windows  
gleaming in the afternoon light. The place was mostly windows, he  
noted, which didn't surprise him when he turned and looked at the  
view the place afforded, a sprawling expanse of valley dotted with  
farms and dense woods.

It was a fairly warm day, even for the mountains, and he peeled out  
of the jacket he'd put on when he left the house that morning,  
tossing it into the back seat of his black Jetta and pushing up the  
sleeves of the light, dark sweater he wore. He was in his typical  
Saturday attire -- jeans, running shoes -- and it helped him feel a  
little less conspicuous on his errand. Though he'd technically come  
as a CIA agent, he didn't feel like anyone could tell that by looking  
at him. Getting out of a suit did wonders for that.

This had to be the place, he thought as he made his way across the  
parking lot. His bad leg hampered him only slightly, the bone feeling  
better as winter finally gave way into what he knew would be a short  
spring. At this rate, he'd be back to light running in a matter of  
weeks.

He headed for the office, the bell tinkling as he opened the glass  
door and went inside. A woman came out from the back room -- slight,  
blonde hair and holding out well in her mid-50s -- and smiled to him  
kindly as he approached the desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her southern accent thick. She was from  
further south than Virginia, Granger knew instantly. He smiled in  
return, reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge.

"I hope you can," he said, flipping the cover open and showing it to  
her. "I'm Paul Granger, with the CIA. I wondered if I might ask a few  
questions."

The woman looked a little bewildered. The place didn't exactly look  
like a hotbed of legal activity, so he wasn't surprised. And "CIA"  
always sounded so damn serious, a fact which pleased him and made him  
want to roll his eyes at the same time.

"Well, sure, Mr. Granger," the woman managed. "I'll answer anything  
I can."

He pulled out a small spiral pad from his other back pocket, reached  
for one of the pens behind the desk, looking to her for approval. She  
nodded, her eyes still wide.

"What's your name, ma'am?" he asked gently in an attempt to put her  
at ease.

"Sue," she said. "Scheiber. My husband Ed and I own the motel."

"Are the two of you the only ones who run the office?" he asked,  
writing down her and her husband's names.

"Yes, it's just us," she said, still nervous. "Has something  
happened here that we don't know about?"

"In a way," he replied, fingering a slot in his badge wallet. He  
pulled out a wallet-sized photo of Mulder, his official FBI photo, a  
copy of the one that had gone on his badge. He pushed it across the  
counter toward her.

"I'm wondering if you might recognize this man," he said. "He stayed  
here on January 12-13, I'm told."

The woman eyed the photo, holding it up to get a closer look at it.  
"That was a long time ago," she said doubtfully.

"I know," Granger replied, trying to keep the anxiety out of his  
voice. This *needed* to work. He needed someone to have seen Mulder  
here.

"Do you know around what time he would have checked in?" she asked,  
returning her gaze to Granger's face.

Granger thought back to the last time he'd seen Mulder that day.  
They'd been with the task force through most of the day, and Mulder  
had returned to the Marriott sometime around four or five that  
afternoon, he recalled. Afton was about two hours from Richmond, so  
that gave him some idea of his window.

"I'm guessing early evening," he said finally. "Or later."

"Then it would be Ed you want to talk to. I do the early morning and  
afternoons here until around four. Ed takes the nights." She looked  
at Mulder's picture again. "And I think I'd remember a face like  
*that* one. What'd he do, anyway?"

Granger saw her eyes gleam with the intrigue of all this. It was  
clearly more excitement than the woman had had in some time. He would  
have smiled had the situation been less dire.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that really," he said. "Nothing  
illegal, though. I'm just trying to confirm he was here. Do you keep  
a ledger of who stays here? A guest book or anything like that?"

She nodded, placing the picture on the counter. "Yes, everyone signs  
in in this here book," she said, and reached down for the thick  
ledger, a battered green cover that had the word "Guests" embossed on  
the front of it. "We thought we'd do that, you know, kind of like a  
fancy hotel does." She blushed.

Now Granger did smile. "I see," he said, and reached for the book.  
He laid it on the counter and opened it, flipping through the pages,  
checking dates until he'd found January 12. He ran his finger down  
the list of names: Long... Selby... Schulz... Reynolds... Brown...  
Kucinski... Jolly...

Nothing there. His heart sank.

Then he turned the page over to the thirteenth, and was rewarded  
immediately.

Hale. George Hale. The first entry of the day. And he recognized  
Mulder's handwriting, as well, having seen so much of it scribbled on  
files and legal pads as they'd profiled Curran together in Richmond.  
He'd signed in at five in the morning on the thirteenth. Granger felt  
a little jolt of adrenaline at the sight of the name.

"You find his name?" Scheiber asked. She'd noticed his reaction  
immediately.

"Yes," Granger replied. "I need for your husband to try to identify  
him in this picture, if he was the one on duty at five."

"Yes, it would be Ed," she said, excited herself over this little  
bit of cloak and dagger at the Overlook. "I don't come on until six.  
I'll go wake him up for you."

Granger smiled again, both at her enthusiasm and her words. "I would  
really appreciate that, Mrs. Scheiber. Thank you."

Scheiber went around the desk. "Anyone comes to check in, tell them  
I'll be right back," she said, and then she was out the door, the  
bell chiming behind her.

Granger stood there, his eyes on the name still, looking at the  
picture of Mulder. He was glad that he'd found some proof he was  
there (though it would have, of course, been even better if Mulder  
had signed in using his own name), but he was still puzzled as to why  
Mulder would be out this way at five in the morning, what he'd been  
trying to do.

Maybe he couldn't sleep and just needed a drive? He knew Mulder  
didn't sleep well -- he'd caught him up too many late nights. But to  
drive all the way out here? It seemed very strange.

He was still turning that over in his head when Mrs. Scheiber  
returned, a haggard- looking man with his shirt untucked and his hair  
in disarray behind her. He was cleaning his glasses on his shirt tail  
as he entered, then put them on and regarded Granger with sleepy  
eyes.

"Sue said you needed me to try to identify someone?" the man asked,  
his voice gravelly.

"Yes, I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. Scheiber," Granger said, and showed  
the other man his badge just to be thorough. "I was wondering if you  
remember seeing this man here in mid-January. The thirteenth, to be  
exact."

Scheiber took the picture, held it in front of him, looking down at  
it through the bottom of his bifocals.

"Hm...no, I don't think so..." he said almost to himself as he  
continued to look.

Granger's face fell.

"No, wait," the other man said, pointing at the picture with his  
other hand, touching Mulder's face softly, tapping. "I remember him.  
He came in in the middle of the night, or close to dawn, I think? It  
was snowing that morning. Pretty hard. I remember that because I  
couldn't get a damn bit of sleep that morning with keep the walk  
shoveled and the parking lot plowed. I actually checked him out while  
Suey was making lunch. Him and that woman he was with, though she  
didn't come into the office. I saw her as I was shovelling, before he  
came in to give me back my key."

Granger's brow knitted. "A woman?" he asked. "He was with a woman?"

"Uh-yeah, pretty little thing," Scheiber said, looking over the rims  
of his glasses. "Red head. Real pretty."

Beside him, Sue Scheiber rolled her eyes. "Figures he would remember  
that," and she slapped him lightly on the arm.

Granger groaned inwardly. Oh great, he thought. Now I've got Mulder  
leaving the task force without authorization, AND Scully leaving her  
cover.

This is looking better all the time, he thought sardonically.

He did, however, take heart in the fact that at least Mulder wasn't  
here with Curran (not that he believed that for a moment), and that  
someone was with him to vouch for his whereabouts.

Though the two of them meeting like that....it didn't look good on  
many levels. Scully's credibility as a witness for Mulder's  
whereabouts was a bit compromised, with her own breach of protocol.

And the likelihood that they met not as agents, but as lovers.

And even if it wasn't true, everyone would see it that way.

He had to ask, make one final attempt and making it look cleaner.  
"One room or two? Do you remember?"

Scheiber thought about it. "Just the one," he said, handed the  
picture back to Granger. "I figured she was his wife, but I didn't  
ask no questions. I mind my business about things like that."

Granger nodded, placed the picture back in his badge wallet, then  
reached back for the counter and picked up his small spiral pad.

"Could you write down everything you just told me?" he asked,  
proffering both the pad and a pen to him. "It would be a big help to  
me in my...investigation." He smiled wanly.

"Sure thing," Ed Scheiber said, taking the pen and the pad. He  
placed it on the counter and began to write.

 

Back in the car, Granger sat still for a long time, trying his best  
to figure out what to do. He would have to tell Skinner about Mulder  
and Scully being there together, and he dreaded even that. After all,  
Skinner was their superior, and what they'd done by coming up there  
together looked very bad, professionally speaking.

The information solved one problem, but created a new one -- the  
exposure of Mulder and Scully's relationship, which, though not  
forbidden, was heavily frowned upon.

And it was becoming clear that Mulder was going to really only have  
Scully to vouch for his actions, and for what really happened in Mae  
Curran's apartment. That was a bad thing, as well, as Padden was  
already questioning her conduct since she'd gone on the run.

The revelation that the two of them were lovers would make her  
credibility even weaker -- Padden would say she was lying for Mulder  
because they were together, that she would do and say anything to  
protect him.

He shook his head as he started the car. He'd start with Skinner  
first. See how he reacted. Maybe Skinner would know what to do with  
all this once he knew about the two of them, though Granger hated to  
be the one to give even a small part of that secret away if Skinner  
didn't know already.

Sighing, he turned back onto the highway. He headed east, going back  
toward Interstate 95, knowing he'd found the answer to one part of  
this puzzle, but wishing he could feel better about what he'd found.

 

********

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE  
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA  
4:17 p.m.

 

The agent's heels echoed through the empty corridors leading to the  
closed door of Robert Padden's office.

He looked around as he walked, at the vacant offices, the closed  
doors. It was Saturday, and there was no one in the building who  
didn't have to be there, the usual skeleton crew of agents working  
the weekends.

And the task force he was himself a part of. The one that met every  
weekend -- and only on the weekends -- to share their gathered  
information and to make their plans for the following week's  
activities. And to report to their superior everything they'd found.

He reached the door, Padden's temporary office here at the CIA  
headquarters. It was closed, as usual. Padden liked his privacy, even  
when there was really no one around to disturb him. His office was  
like a cocoon -- dark and insular and quiet. Not a sound came through  
the heavy wooden door.

Tucking the folder he carried under his arm, the agent paused  
outside the door, preparing himself to have the unenviable task of  
being the bearer of bad news.

Unenviable particularly because it was to this man, and about this  
subject.

Finally, standing up straighter, he cleared his throat, knocked.

"Come," came the faint response from inside the room.

He opened the door and made his way across the dark carpet to the  
desk, where a single bulb glowed on the desk, the only light in the  
room besides what little managed to leak through the closed drapes  
and blinds.

Padden looked up from a file he was reading, dropped the pen he'd  
been holding and took off his reading glasses. The agent stopped,  
hesitated.

"Well?" Padden said expectantly, already sounding a bit miffed.

The agent cleared his throat again, gripped the folder in front of  
him. Finally, he handed it over the desk to Padden, who did not take  
his eyes off the other man as he took the folder.

"We lost them," the agent said quietly.

Padden pursed his lips, still for a moment, the folder held just  
over the immaculate surface of the desk.

"How?" The word seemed to echo in the office.

"They got spooked in a town in Arizona," the agent said, choosing  
his words with care. "Someone tried to grab her, and the two of them  
took off. Our people couldn't keep up with them without looking too  
conspicuous, so they hung back a bit. A bit too far, apparently." He  
added the last apologetically.

Padden shook his head, clearly frustrated, finally set the folder  
down and opened it.

It was filled with photographs.

"Those are the most recent ones we have," the agent added, trying to  
sound helpful. "They're from a week ago, and a little before."

Padden fingered them, glancing over them one by one. Mulder and  
Scully leaving a motel. Going into a restaurant. At a gas station,  
Scully heading around the side of a building.

His hand stopped on one, which he lifted away from the others and  
studied, replacing his glasses as he did so. The agent stepped closer  
to see which one it was, though he could pretty much guess without  
seeing.

Mulder and Scully sitting on a ledge, snow falling. Mulder behind  
Scully and his arms around her, his head on her shoulder. The  
intimacy in the picture was impossible to ignore or misconstrue.

"Well." Padden held the picture up a bit higher. "I guess there's  
one thing we know for certain at this point, isn't there."

The agent nodded. "There is. And to think we thought they were just  
sharing all those motel rooms for safety's sake." He smirked, hoping  
the humor would lighten Padden's ire.

"You'd think," Padden said almost absently. "that she would have had  
enough of that after that business with Fagan." His lips curled.

The agent forced a smile in return. "Yes, you would," he said,  
though some dim part of him felt guilty for agreeing to that one.

"Doesn't seem to be agreeing with her one bit," Padden continued,  
setting the photo down and picking up the one of Scully going around  
the building. "Post-Traumatic Stress seems to have set in nicely."

The agent's smile faded. "Yes," he said, trying his best to sound  
agreeable. "We've all noticed that, as well."

"Makes for an easier target for Curran," Padden continued. "And  
it'll keep Mulder shaken up, too. That will all work to our  
advantage."

"Yes." The agent shifted from one foot to another.

Finally, Padden dropped the photo. "Who tried to take her?"

"We're not sure," the agent replied, glad for the change of subject.  
"The people at the station said three men. They all drove away after  
they'd shaken themselves off. They were a little worse for wear  
apparently."

Padden heaved out a put-upon breath. "Were our people close enough  
to pursue if they'd gotten to her?"

The other man nodded. "Yes. They were right there. They didn't want  
to take off after Mulder and Scully when they ran, though, since they  
were expecting to be followed and it would have blown our cover for  
sure. They tried to follow a bit later, since there are only a few  
roads out where they were and they thought it would be impossible to  
lose them." He looked down at his feet, then back up again. "But they  
were wrong, apparently."

Padden leaned back, his face reddening. "How do we know that Curran  
doesn't already have her? How the hell are we going to catch the bear  
if we can't even keep an eye on the bait?"

The agent looked down again. This was the dressing down he expected.

"We'll find them. We're blanketing all the towns from southern Utah  
to western New Mexico, all the way to Farmington. When they stop  
again, we'll find them."

Padden scowled. "You tell our people I want them found  
*immediately.* All this effort will have been for nothing if we're  
not there when Curran gets to her. And I'm running out of things to  
feed Granger's task force to keep them occupied. The fact that  
someone tried to get her means Curran knows where she is and is  
making his move. We'd sure as hell better be there when he does. If  
he takes her out while we're not there, they'll be no way to get a  
finger on him, nothing to follow to him."

"Yes, sir," the agent replied. "We're doing everything we can."

"Do more," Padden growled, and tossed his glasses back on the desk.

"We still think this would be easier," the man said cautiously, "if  
you let us take Mulder out of the equation. Bring him in."

Padden shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "Leave him be.  
Especially given this." He pushed the photo of the two of them on the  
cliff toward the agent. "Curran's got someone working for him; that's  
for certain now. And there's no better target than a man *in love*  
willing to throw himself in front of a bullet."

The agent watched that same wry smirk pass over the other man's face  
again. He swallowed.

"No, leave Mulder right where he is," Padden continued. "Knowing his  
history, he has a way of taking care of himself. If there's a way to  
get into trouble, he'll find it, and then he won't be our concern any  
more."

The agent looked down, uncertain for a moment. Then he took in a  
deep breath. This was what he'd signed on to when he took this  
assignment. This was about catching a terrorist, he reminded himself.  
About two people operating outside the law. They knew the possible  
consequences of the path they'd chosen.

Sacrifices would have to be made, he reminded himself.

He comforted himself with that thought, and nodded to his superior.

"We'll find them," he said firmly.

"Good. I hope you'll pass on my...confidence...to the other agents?"  
Padden sat still as he said it.

"I will," the man said. "By next weekend. When we meet again."

"I'm going to turn up the heat a bit," Padden said. "Redo the  
posters and make them both wanted now. And I'll put a reward on it  
this time, too."

"That would probably help us, yes," the agent admitted.

Padden nodded. "Very good," he said, and now went back to his files,  
reaching for his glasses. "I'll leave you to your work. That will be  
all."

The agent nodded. "Yes, sir," he said faintly.

Then he turned and headed back through the office, relieved to close  
the door tight behind him.

 

***********

 

END OF CHAPTER 12b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 13.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 13a.

************

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
10:37 p.m.

 

"Another one!"

Scully pointed up towards the far right quadrant of the sky, her  
eyes wide as the streak of light shot a long trail across the dark  
canvas of stars above her, the trail fading almost instantly, as  
though the meteor she'd seen had never been there at all.

"I saw it, yes," Albert Hosteen said from beside her. "A big one.  
Burned for a long time for a falling star."

Another puff of his pipe smoke reached her, lingering with the smoke  
from the campfire they'd built in the firepit in front of the two  
chairs. She found herself looking over at him in the flickering  
firelight, his features thrown in black and gold relief, at his eyes  
turned up toward the sky. They were glowing dark pools in his craggy  
face as he scanned above. He looked content, and she borrowed some of  
that feeling from him.

At first, she'd thought it a silly thing to do, to watch a meteor  
shower. After all, she thought, it was nothing but a shower of space  
debris burning up on entry into the atmosphere. But Hosteen had said  
that it might be pretty, that she might enjoy it, and she'd relented,  
let him build the fire after they'd shared their nightly meal.

She smiled at the memory of him coming down off Ghost -- his  
obedient, almost silent, horse -- with the foil-covered pan.

"Have you ever had Navajo lasagna?" he'd asked, meeting her as she  
came down out of the trailer.

"No, I haven't," she'd replied, already amused at the notion.

"That's good." Albert was smiling as he said it. "Because there is  
no such thing. This is Stouffer's."

He had a knack for making her laugh like that. Easy laughter at easy  
things.

After she'd fetched the plastic plates, the flimsy silverware, from  
the trailer and they'd eaten the meal, he'd told her about the shower  
that night, suggested they watch it together.

She had to admit, when he first started coming around with food  
every night, there had been a part of her that had resented the  
intrusion on her space, her grief. But as the nights had gone by,  
she'd found herself welcoming his serene presence, a nightly respite  
from her solitude.

She spent the whole day thinking, turning events from her life over  
in her head like stones she was lifting up and examining one by one.  
She'd grown to realize it had been years since she'd truly had the  
time alone to really consider the things that had happened to her, to  
allow herself to feel the pain and anger she had over some of them.

Her abduction. Her cancer. Her infertility. The deaths in her  
family. Emily. Curran's manipulation of her with the drug.

And then the rape.

But now, with the time alone in the trailer, the hours spent walking  
in the desert behind it, she had begun to feel these things. It was  
as if the attack by Fagan had finally driven her to a break. It had  
somehow simultaneously closed one door and opened another -- closed  
the door on her openness to people and possibilities in the present,  
but opened the door to her feelings about her past. Opened old wounds  
she'd thought long since scarred over.

Apparently she'd been wrong about that. And she was seeping rage and  
anguish like blood.

But not when she was with Hosteen. He calmed her during his nightly  
visits, always ready with a good meal and his pipe and his stories  
and gentle questions.

Another meteor streaked across the sky, this one fast as a wink, but  
both of them saw it. Scully smiled, shifting back in her chair. So  
child-like, this pleasure. So simple.

As if reading her thoughts, Albert blew out a puff of smoke and  
said: "Used to do this with my son Keel when he was a little boy. Sit  
out here and watch the sky at night. He still loves to be out at  
night. He even has a telescope now and sometimes he shows me things  
through it." He turned to her. "You ever think about having children,  
Agent Scully?"

Her face flushed and she looked down, into the fire.

"I am sorry if I pry too much," Hosteen said, regret in his voice as  
he saw her reaction. "I was just wondering. You don't have to answer  
if you do not want to."

"No, it's fine," Scully said, her chin coming up. She wouldn't allow  
herself to hide from the truth of that. To do so made her feel like a  
coward, and she wanted to appear strong, particularly to this man she  
respected. "I...I'm not able to have children."

"Hm," Hosteen said. "I am sorry." He looked into the fire. "It is  
strange though. I see you with a child for some reason."

Scully looked down again, this time at the ground. "I had a child  
once," she said hesitantly. "I didn't carry her, but she was mine."

"The government project." He said it as a fact. She looked up at him  
in surprise. She had forgotten that he knew about that, and wondered  
to what extent he was familiar with it. At the same time, she was  
relieved not to have to explain.

"Yes," she said at last. "I was taken and left unable to conceive.  
But Emily...she happened some time after that. I'm not sure how. I  
only found out about her by accident. I was never meant to know."

"But you did know. You found her."

Scully studied her hands. "Yes. I took her away from them when I  
found her, but she was very sick because of what they'd done to her."  
She hesitated. "She died a few days later." Her voice had dropped to  
just above a whisper.

A log fell in the fire, sending up a rain of sparks that swirled in  
the air and then blinked out.

"You did the right thing to take her away from them," he said, and  
for the first time she heard something hard in his voice, the  
simmering of anger. "To try to give her a life away from all that.  
From what those men do. It is evil." He looked over at her, his eyes  
shining in the flames. "I hope you do not blame yourself for her  
death. What you did was right."

Scully looked back at him, nodded, hesitated.

Should she tell him? She hadn't spoken of it to anyone -- not even  
to Mulder, though he'd been a part of all of it...

But something about the quietness of the night, the cocoon of warmth  
and light of the fire, and something about Hosteen himself, made it  
seem safe to speak.

"I forgave myself for it because...she told me to," she said, now  
unable to meet his eyes.

Did she even believe it herself that it was more than a  
hallucination or dream? How could she expect him to believe it was?

"Before she died, she told you?" he asked, pulling on the pipe.

Scully looked down. Shook her head. "No."

Hosteen nodded. "Hm. Tell me the story."

She pulled in a deep breath. "It was two years to the day after her  
death. Mulder and I...we'd been in a terrible car accident and no one  
could find us for a long time. We were both injured very badly.  
Dying. That's when she came to me. Right into the car, in fact." She  
looked down, embarassed. "I know how it sounds..."

"No, never apologize for the truth," he interrupted gently. "No  
matter how it might sound to people who do not understand it. You  
were close to death. It is a time when we can touch death, the world  
of it. It makes sense, I think." He paused. "What did she say to  
you?"

Scully's gaze returned to his face with his acceptance of what she  
had to say. It relieved her, made her believe herself. It opened her  
a bit more.

"She said that what happened wasn't my fault. For me to forgive  
myself for her death." She balked. "And she told me...I didn't have  
to be lonely anymore."

Hosteen nodded. "A kind child," he said softly. "A good child, to  
care for you that way." He pinned her with his eyes. "Though you  
don't seem to have listened to what she had to say."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused. "I told you I've forgiven  
myself for what happened to her."

"You didn't listen to the last thing she said," Hosteen replied.  
"You might have at first, but you are ignoring it now."

Scully flushed, looked away. "Things are not the same as they were  
then," she said quietly. A touch of defensiveness had crept in.

"Not the same in you, you mean," he said. He took another drag off  
his pipe.

"No, I mean things are not the same," she insisted, more defensive  
now.

"Hm," he said softly, and she was irritated by the blitheness of his  
response to her.

"You don't believe me?" she said.

He studied the end of his pipe. "I saw Agent Mulder this morning  
after you left the house from your shower," he said. He put the pipe  
back in his mouth, spoke around it. "Things seem the same to him."

Angered and feeling invaded, she stood now suddenly, gathering her  
dishes from the meal. "Mulder has nothing to do with this," she said  
under her breath. "You have no idea what I've been through. But I  
will tell you Mulder's not a part of it."

"You have to forgive him, too," Hosteen said as though she hadn't  
spoken, and she shot him a look, grabbed up his plate from beside him  
with her other hand.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped. "There's nothing to  
forgive him for. Mulder didn't *do* anything."

"And that is what you must forgive," Hosteen replied, unaffected by  
her tone, the fire catching on his face, the even challenge of it.

Scully pulled in a breath, stilled by his words. She looked at him,  
her eyes wide with surprise.

"As you must forgive yourself for this thing that has happened to  
you," he continued. A puff of pipe smoke, but his eyes did not leave  
hers. "Forgive yourself for not being able to keep it from  
happening."

She was stunned now, feeling the now-familiar burn of shame. But it  
was more than that, this coming from him. It felt like something  
tearing loose in her. Her eyes filled and she swallowed hard.

"How...how do you know these things?" she said incredulously, hoarse  
around the lump in her throat. She was still frozen in place in front  
of him, a plate in each hand. The left shook so that the fork  
chattered on the plastic surface faintly.

"There was a woman here a long time ago," Albert began, looking not  
at her but into the fire again. "Went into Farmington one day and a  
man took her, kept her for several days and then left her in a  
parking lot. Once she got better she came home, back to her family  
here. She could not go out. She would not eat. The man she was  
supposed to marry waited a long time for her to come back to herself,  
but she never did." He gnawed on his pipe end, took a puff. "He gave  
up after some time, married another."

Scully swallowed again, struggling to contain her emotions.  
"What...what happened to her?" she asked faintly.

He looked back at her, away from the fire. "She stayed with her  
family for the rest of her life, which was short. Something in her  
had died and the rest of her, it was not far behind."

He paused as she looked down, then back up at him again, desperate,  
her eyes rimmed with tears.

"I hated to watch that," he said into the quiet. "We all did. It was  
hard to lose someone like that."

Scully looked away, and twin tears escaped as she clenched her eyes  
closed, fighting for her badly taxed control. She did not have a hand  
free to wipe them, so she let them fall, though they shamed her.

Albert leaned forward. "It was a terrible thing, what was done to  
your body," he said softly. "But you are still alive. Your body is  
still alive. And what was done to you is not who you are or what you  
must become."

She shook her head. It was too much.

"Please..." she whispered, bit her bottom lip, her face still turned  
away.

"You can be who you were again," he said with conviction. "You  
*will* be her again. You just have to search out what you need to  
find her."

She was shaking now, a fine tremor, his words crashing through her.  
Her brow knitted over her closed eyes, and she bit her lip so hard it  
hurt. But she held on, riding it out. She still could not look at him  
as she opened her eyes finally, heaved out a long, trembling breath.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him lean back in the  
chair, set his pipe on the arm of it. Then he reached out and took  
the plates from her hands, set them on the ground at his feet.

His voice was supremely gentle when he spoke. "Why don't you sit  
down and watch the shower and I will put another log on the fire? We  
can sit quietly and watch together for a while."

She didn't know what else to do, every part of her feeling flayed.  
Like she had lost a layer of skin, a hard dead layer like a shell.

So she went back to her chair and sat, wiping her eyes quickly as  
Hosteen rose and put a piece of wood on the fire. Flaming ashes rose  
and winked out as he returned to the chair beside her. He refilled  
and relit his pipe.

For a long time she sat with him and watched the sky in a  
companionable silence, the night cold but the fire warming her, stars  
shooting across the sky's dark face like tears made of light.

 

**********

PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO  
APRIL 3 (THREE DAYS LATER)  
6:37 a.m.

 

"Katherine, try to drink this."

Joe Porter spoke softly, kneeling on the cracked tile floor of the  
bathroom. He proferred Mae a glass of water with one hand, stroked  
her back softly through the thin material of his own shirt she was  
wearing with the other hand. She was on her knees, as well, panting,  
her head over the toilet.

"No..." she said between breaths, and she retched. He set the glass  
down quickly and pulled back her long hair, holding it in a ponytail  
as she vomited again. He winced. It sounded like it hurt this time.

Sean appeared in the doorway, sleep still clinging to him, the  
imprint of the sheets on the side of his face. "Joe?" he asked,  
uncertain, his voice tinged with fear.

"It's all right, buddy," Joe replied, doing his best to sound  
calming. "She's just sick again. I'll tell you what I want you to do,  
though. Go ahead and get dressed and put a few of your coloring books  
and toys in your backpack, okay?"

"Are we going out?" Sean asked, rubbing at his eyes.

"Yes, Sean, we're going to go to the doctor's," Joe replied, and saw  
Sean's eyes widen. "But it's okay," he added hurriedly. "We're just  
going to get your aunt checked out, that's all. Now go ahead and get  
ready to go."

"Okay, Joe," Sean said softly, and disappeared from the doorway.

Mae's hand shot out to the side of the bathtub for support as she  
leaned back slightly. He looked at her, worried at the paleness of  
her face, and let go of her hair, his hand trailing over her  
shoulder.

"I don't need to go to the clinic," she said hoarsely, not looking  
at him. "It's just a bug. It's nothing."

"You've been sick like this for days," Joe insisted gently, and she  
turned to him now, her eyes tired but surprised. "Yes, Sean told me  
last night," he said. "Though I wish you would have told me yourself.  
Now you're getting weak and dehydrated. It's time to go in and get  
some antibiotics or something. This happens to a lot of tourists down  
here and it's not serious as long as you get it treated. It won't  
just go away."

She sighed, leaned all the way back now, then swooned, her eyes  
lolling. Joe moved forward quickly to catch her before her head could  
knock against the wall behind her and held her gently, cradling her  
against his chest.

"Jesus, Katherine, you're going to be lucky to stand," he said,  
stroking her hair. "Now don't argue with me for once, all right?"

"All right..." she said faintly, turned her face into his chest, her  
eyes closing. "I'll go then."

**********

END OF CHAPTER 13a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 13b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 13b.

**********

LA CLNICA DE SANTA MARIA  
8:48 a.m.

 

Joe sat in the hard plastic chair at the end of the long hallway  
that led to the examining rooms of the town's small clinic, and  
realized suddenly that he was tapping his foot anxiously and he  
stopped abruptly.

He blew out a breath and checked his watch. Patience had never been  
his strong suit, especially when he had worry piled on top of it. He  
shifted in his seat, stretched his long legs out in front of him,  
trying to appear nonchalant now for Sean's sake.

Sean sat next to him, his hair still awry from sleep, his brow  
knitted in concentration. He had drawn what Joe considered to be a  
pretty good picture of a crab, and was now coloring its claws and  
body a bright purple.

Joe looked at the boy, at the seriousness of his face, and knew that  
though Sean was quiet about it, he was worried, as well. In the time  
that Joe had known him, Sean had shown himself to be a very sweet,  
very sensitive child, often lost in introspection. Joe knew that  
something like this was bound to affect him deeply, though the child  
had inherited his aunt's ability to be silent about his thoughts most  
of the time.

It was a trait that worried Joe about both of them.

He reached over and cupped the back of Sean's head in his calloused  
hand, gave him a small shake. The corner of Sean's lip came up in a  
tiny smile, then was gone.

"How you holding up, buddy?" Joe asked softly.

"I'm all right," Sean replied, but didn't look up from the picture,  
his hand continuing to scratch the crayon over the paper.

Joe rubbed absently at his hair, looking at the picture, as well.  
"She's going to be all right, you know," he said, trying a different  
tact in an attempt to get Sean to open up a bit more. "It's just a  
little thing she picked up in town, I bet. They'll give her some  
medicine and she'll be good as new."

Sean seemed pensive for a moment. "But Aunt Mae hardly ever gets  
sick," he said, still not looking up. "I can only remember a couple  
times she's been sick like this."

Joe's brow knitted in confusion and his hand stilled on the back of  
Sean's head where he'd been stroking the boy's hair down. "'Mae'?" he  
asked, and as he said the word, Sean's face shot toward his, flushing  
deep red, clearly afraid.

Tears were beginning in Sean's eyes as he searched Joe's face. "I  
wasn't supposed to say that," he said, and his voice quivered.  
"She'll be mad at me for telling."

Joe let out a tired breath, nodded. A dull ache had lodged in his  
chest.

"It's okay, Sean," he said tenderly, stroking Sean's hair down again  
to soothe him. "It's okay that you told me that."

"No, I'm not supposed to." The tears were falling now.

Joe reached down and cradled the side of Sean's face in his hand,  
brushing at the tears with his thumb. "It's *okay.*" he said firmly.  
"You can trust me, Sean. I would never do anything to hurt you or  
your aunt. No matter what."

Sean searched his face for a few seconds, his lip trembling.

"Come here," Joe said gently, and he leaned over, put his arms  
around Sean and embraced him. Sean slowly brought his arms up, as  
well, curled them around Joe's broad back, the purple crayon held  
tightly in his fist. The picture slipped to the floor, disappeared  
under the row of chairs.

They stayed like that for a long moment while Sean's chest heaved,  
his breath fast as he cried. Joe rested his cheek against the top of  
Sean's head and let him cry. He wondered at the weight the small body  
in his arms had been carrying all this time. He wanted to lift it all  
away.

A nurse appeared around the corner, coming from the hallway. She  
stopped, met Joe's eyes and smiled kindly.

"Seor Porter?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"S'," Joe replied, letting Sean lean away. The boy rubbed his face  
on the short sleeves of his shirt, struggling for his control.

"You can come back now," the woman said in Spanish. "But she only  
wants to see you right now." She looked at Sean. "I'll sit with the  
boy while you go."

Joe's anxiety ratcheted up a few more notches and he struggled to  
keep it off his face as Sean looked at him.

"What did she say?" Sean asked, afraid.

Joe looked down at him. "She's going to sit with you for a minute  
while I go back and see...Mae," he said. "I'll be out to get you in a  
minute, all right?"

"Okay," Sean said, and Joe stood, pushed his sandy hair back from  
his face, nervous.

"Examination room three," the nurse said, and bent down to retrieve  
the picture that Sean had been working on that was near her feet,  
then sat down next to him. Joe nodded and went down the corridor.

At room number three, he stopped, steeling himself, and knocked  
faintly. Mae's shaky voice told him to come in.

She was sitting on the examining table in a gown, her long bare legs  
over the side of the table. She wiped at her eyes, which were rimmed  
red and wet with tears. She did not smile as she looked at him.

"Where's Sean?" she asked without preamble.

"He's with the nurse. The end of the hallway." He looked at her,  
frightened by her state. "My God, what is it?" he asked, his heart  
beating hard now.

Mae rubbed her eyes once more, pushed her hair back, kept her hand  
on her forehead as she closed her eyes and blew out a breath.

"Joe, I'm pregnant," she said, her eyes still closed as she spoke.

His heart, already running to catch up with his nerves, now nearly  
screeched to a halt. His mouth hung open. "You're pregnant?" he  
repeated, incredulous.

She nodded, and now she did look at him, drew in another trembling  
breath, let it out.

"But I thought we--" he stammered.

"Not even a diaphragm is a sure thing," she said, and her hand came  
up to cover her face. She shook her head. "Jesus *Christ*...."

He swallowed down his shock as he saw how upset she was. He couldn't  
stand to see her this upset over this, over anything.

So he came forward until he was standing almost against her knees.  
Not knowing what else to do, he did as he'd done with Sean -- he  
folded her in his arms, tucked her face beneath his chin, her fast  
breath on his throat.

"It's okay," he said softly into her hair. "Mae, it's okay. We'll  
work with this. Work it out."

She melted into him for a few seconds, then she stiffened, pulled  
away quickly, looking into his eyes, the same frightened expression  
on her face as Sean had worn at his mention of the name. Her tears  
began again.

"Yes," he said gently. "I know your real name. Sean slipped it out.  
He didn't mean to. He was just upset." He cupped her face in his  
large hands. "And it's all right," he said with conviction. "It's  
*all* all right."

She choked on a sob, and her arms came up and around him, pulling  
him to her so tightly it almost hurt him. He returned the embrace  
gently, rubbing her back in small circles. He turned his face and  
kissed her cheek, lingering there.

"Joe, I'm so afraid," she whispered against his shoulder. "You don't  
understand. If you knew...God, I've done...terrible things--" She  
stopped on another sob.

"I know you're afraid," he said softly, holding her tighter. "But  
we're going to work this out. I don't care who you're running from or  
what you've done. I know who you are *now* and I love you." He pulled  
her face away, looked into her eyes. "And you can trust me. You have  
to believe that, all right?"

She looked at him, and he could tell from the way her eyes ran over  
his face that she wanted desperately to believe him, even if she  
couldn't bring herself to do it yet. He knew it would probably take a  
long time for her to trust him like that, but he was prepared to  
wait. For as long as it took.

Finally she nodded, accepting the gesture in what he'd said. He did,  
as well, and leaned forward. Moving slowly, with a sort of reverence,  
he kissed her forehead, then her cheek, and finally her lips.

 

**********

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO  
2:23 p.m.

 

Larry Kingston, fresh off the plane from Tyner, Kentucky and rattled  
by a five-hour drive from Pueblo, listened to the chains grate on the  
snow as the jeep he was riding in crawled its way up the mountain  
toward the town of Alder Creek.

He knew they were getting close now. As the Grand Marshall of the  
Sons of Liberty, he was familiar with this place, having chosen it  
for his most secret base of operations himself on a hunting trip ten  
years ago. So he knew the way like he knew the lines on his own hand.

First the bend around the big tree at the top of the mountain; then  
the slow downhill for a few hundred yards, and the turnoff into the  
base, marked only by an orange cone and a sign that warned everyone  
to keep out -- private property.

The man driving the jeep, a resident of the compound who'd been  
called upon to pick him up from the tiny airport in Pueblo, followed  
the way just as he expected, and the snow was just beginning to fall  
as he went down the mile-long driveway into the compound, the faint  
cotton of smoke hanging in the trees the only sign that there was  
life up ahead of them at all.

The snow was coming down more now, heavy lazy flakes, as they pulled  
up outside the mess hall and the jeep stopped. There was a knot of  
people there to greet him.

He stepped out of the jeep, immediately greeted by Jeff Haskell, the  
leader of the compound. The two men shook hands, then embraced  
quickly in the stiff way of country men in parkas.

"How are you, Larry?" Haskell asked. "Good trip?"

"Long trip," Kingston corrected. "But it was all right, I reckon.  
Could use a pipe and cup of coffee, though."

Haskell smiled. "You've got the pipe, I've got the coffee," he said.  
"Want to come into the mess hall? We might be able to scare up  
something from lunch, too."

Kingston waved him off. "I will. I'll meet you in there. I want to  
do my errand first." He looked around. "Where's he at?"

The smile faded from Haskell's face. "He's in his bunk, getting  
packed up. You're lucky to have caught him at all. He's leaving  
today."

"Huh," Kingston grunted. "We'll see about that. Take me to him, if  
you would."

They moved through the group of people, Kingston smiling and  
greeting them as they reached out and touched his arm, shook his  
hand. He'd forgotten that these people -- most of them up here to  
hide out from some job that he himself had had them do -- needed to  
see him to be reminded of what it was they were fighting for in the  
first place.

He needed to make more of an effort to get up more often, he told  
himself as they made their way across the compound. And not because  
that Irish sonofabitch was causing trouble. But because these people  
needed him to lead them, even here.

There might be another Bush in the White House who wore a cowboy hat  
now, but there was still a lot of work to be done.

The bunkhouse was a small shack in the corner of the property, smoke  
curling from the metal stovepipe chimney. Haskell took him to the  
door, and then Kingston put his hand on the other man's shoulder.

"I'll take it from here," he said. "Let me talk to him by myself."

"No problem," Haskell replied. "We'll be in the mess hall for when  
you're done." And Haskell walked through the faint curtain of snow  
back the way they'd come.

Kingston reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe and tobacco  
pouch, filled the pipe with the sweet-smelling flakes. Then he lit  
it, puffing out a cloud of aromatic smoke, gathering himself. Then he  
knocked on the door.

"What is it?" came the suspicious voice inside, and Kingston didn't  
wait to be asked before he opened the door and walked inside.

Owen Curran was at his locker, tossing a few things into an open  
suitcase on the small cot. His eyes narrowed at Kingston as he  
entered the space, clearly not liking the intrusion. Kingston put the  
pipe in the corner of his mouth and held it there.

"I hear you're going away, Mr. Curran," he said, pinning Curran with  
his eyes and daring him to speak.

Curran stood for a few seconds, the two men regarding each other  
silently. Then Curran went back to the locker, reached in for  
something else. "Aye," he said. "That I am. How did you hear about  
that then, I wonder?"

His voice was drippingly nice and tinged with sarcasm. Kingston  
didn't like it one bit.

"Mr. Curran, this may come as a shock to you, but those two men down  
there in Mexico work for me. So they called *me* when they found your  
sister and your boy down there. I'm just sorry they called you  
first."

"We had a talk, Lantham and I, about that. We have an agreement that  
I'm to be there when he takes them." He looked at Kingston with  
narrow eyes. "He did as he was told."

Kingston pulled on the pipe, leaking smoke out the other corner of  
his mouth. "What I'm wondering, Mr. Curran, is who the hell you think  
you are that you can tell my people what to do like that."

Curran stopped rummaging in the locker and squared off with Kingston  
now, silent and clearly accepting the gauntlet thrown down.

"Lantham said you threatened him with non-payment if he didn't call  
you, as though those orders came from me, so that's why he called  
you." Kingston's face iced over. "Who said you could do that?"

Curran pulled in a slow breath, put his hands in his pockets almost  
casually. "This is my show, Mr. Kingston," he said softly,  
dangerously. "This is my family and my business. We do it my way. And  
my way is that I'm there to make sure your men don't cock the thing  
up on their way to doing it."

"You need to stay here, Mr. Curran," Kingston said in a tone that  
didn't want an argument. "You're under my protection, in my hiding  
place, and I say you stay here and let those two men do their jobs  
and bring your kin up here to you like you said you wanted in the  
first place. I can't have you down there with them if they happen to  
get caught. I don't want to be tied to you in any way with the police  
should that happen. I don't want nothing to do with you or what  
you're standing for."

He puffed out another cloud of smoke into the cool air as Curran  
looked at him.

"No offense intended, of course." He added this last with a crooked  
smile.

"Of course," Curran said, and returned the smile.

"Apparently nobody wants much to do with you these days," Kingston  
continued. "Not even your own people I hear. Not after what you did  
in D.C." He shook his head. "I think you should stay up here with us  
for a little while until we get these three in for you. Then I wash  
my hands of you."

"You've only got the two for me so far," Curran snapped, returning  
to packing. He tossed a pistol in its holster into the suitcase  
haphazardly. "The deal was for all three and the debt's paid,  
remember?"

Kingston nodded. "Almost got the other one, that woman, in Arizona a  
few days back. Won't be long until we find her, as well. Got a lot of  
people looking around for her now. We'll find her right quick."

Curran froze now. "How did that get fucked up?" His chest was  
heaving with emotions that Kingston couldn't quite name. Excitement?  
Rage? He couldn't tell which it was.

Kingston took the pipe out of his mouth, studied the end. "She's got  
someone with her. A man who's armed. He got in the way. But don't  
worry. We'll find her again and we'll be ready this time."

"I should fucking hope so," Curran said angrily, then he turned and  
pointed at Kingston, something wild in his eyes. "In the meantime,  
I'm going to Mexico to get my sister and my boy. And you're not  
stopping me. And if your men move before I get there, I'll be making  
a call to the papers about this place and then you'll have the  
trouble you're asking for."

Kingston put the pipe back in his mouth. He could feel blood behind  
his eyes as he looked at Curran but outwardly he stayed calm, puffed.

Somewhere along the line, Kingston thought, swallowing his rage into  
cold hate, this sonofabitch had gone completely crazy.

Nothing worse than a cause gone personal, he thought bitterly. It  
sickened him to see it.

"Just so we understand each other," Kingston began softly. "You  
potato-eating sonofabitch. You breathe one word about this place  
after my good faith in you and my hiding your sorry ass and I'll make  
sure all the right people know just where to find *you*. And I ain't  
talking about the FBI and the CIA who will treat you pretty, either."

"Call them," Curran said. "I don't give a good fuck what you do.  
I'll have what's mine soon enough and I'll be out of your way and  
theirs. You won't know where to point them, you country fuck."

Kingston went to the stove now, opened the door and tapped his pipe  
into it. The flame hissed in return.

"All right, Mr. Curran," he said evenly. "You go on there down to  
Mexico. You call me with where you end up after that. Keep Lantham  
and Grey with you until you're done, and I'll send the woman your way  
when we get her. Then you and me will be done with each other and we  
can just go our ways. How's that sound to you?"

Curran nodded. "That sounds just fine, Mr. Kingston." He turned  
toward his locker, dismissing him. Then he spoke, facing the locker.

"You'd better fucking keep your word to me. You owe me, after all."

"Yes, I do owe you," Kingston replied, and turned to go. "And I  
always pay my debts. Not to worry. Have a safe trip." Then he was out  
the door and in the snow, moving across the compound.

Fury boiled in him. Nobody talked to him like that. And certainly  
not some crazy foreign bastard like the man he'd just left behind.

I need to do some phone calling, he thought to himself, calming down  
as he made his way to the mess hall.

And he knew just who -- and when -- to call.

 

***********

 

END OF CHAPTER 13b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 14.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 14.

***********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
APRIL 4  
5:38 a.m.

 

"Hey Mulder! GET UP!"

The heavy, fast thumping of a fist on plastic startled Mulder from  
his dead sleep and he bolted upright in bed, his hand immediately  
going for the gun he kept beside his pillow against the wall. His  
chest was heaving, his eyes wide as they shot toward the window, only  
to find Victor's smiling face peering in at him between his open  
hands, which were pressed to the plexiglass.

"*Christ,* Victor, don't scare me like that!" Mulder exclaimed,  
laying the gun back down and cupping his forehead.

"Sorry," Victor said, though his smile didn't fade. "I knocked on  
the door, but you didn't hear me, I guess."

Mulder shook his head, clearing it, noted it was just getting light  
outside. "What time is it?"

Victor's smile widened. "It's a little after 5:30. You're late."

Mulder reached for his watch on the sill as though he didn't believe  
the other man, shivering in the early morning cool, his bare legs  
having slipped out from under the covers. He looked at the watch --  
sure enough. The man was right.

"Late for what?" he asked, cranky.

"You said you wanted to help with the sheep and horses--" the young  
man began firmly.

"Yeah, but for God's sake--"

"-- and this is when we start with them for the day," Victor  
finished, ignoring him. "We've all already eaten. Time for you to get  
at it."

Mulder groaned, rubbed at his face and beard with both hands.

"Come on," Victor cajoled. "You sleep too much as it is. Get  
*moving,* man." He pattered on the window with his hands as though he  
were drumming, making an enormous hollow racket. Mulder put his hand  
up in defeat.

"All right, all right," he said, throwing his legs over the side and  
reaching for his jeans on the floor. They'd started living there when  
they weren't on his body.

"Hurry up and fix something to eat and come on," Victor said. "Meet  
us at the corral. We're going to break horses this morning."

"Sounds messy," Mulder quipped, putting one leg, then the other, in  
the worn denim. He stood, pulling the jeans up over plaid flannel  
boxers, then turned toward the window as he zipped up. "I'll be there  
in a few. Let me burn some bacon and eggs."

Victor grinned again. "Go for it," he said, and then he disappeared.

Mulder reached for a t-shirt from his suitcase, which was tossed on  
the floor and overflowing with unfolded clothes, dirty mixed with  
clean. Scully would be horrified, he thought, at how his messy habits  
had returned so quickly. Her sense of order had worn off in a matter  
of days.

He pulled on his socks and boots, sitting on the edge of the bed.  
Thinking of her tugged at him, and he struggled to shove it off, only  
half succeeding. He sighed and headed to the kitchen, scrubbing at  
his mussed hair as he went.

True to his word, the kitchen was soon filled with a faint layer of  
whitish smoke, heavy with the smell of overdone bacon, dry eggs. He  
picked at them straight from the pans with a fork, not even bothering  
with pepper or salt.

After only a few mouthfuls, he gave up. One thing that Scully *had*  
managed to pass onto him now that the neatness was gone was her lack  
of appetite.

Tossing the eggs into the bacon's skillet, he went out the front  
door, looked around the trailer for a long moment. He whistled  
faintly.

It took a minute or two, but Bo finally appeared from the side of  
the trailer, low to the ground, as usual. His ears pricked up for a  
second as he saw Mulder, his nose coming up to sniff the air.

"Want to eat, Bo?" Mulder called, walking slowly to the edge of the  
patio. About 15 feet away the silver pot sat, filled with fresh water  
from the night before. Mulder was able to walk to the pot without Bo  
spooking too much, the dog having become accustomed to getting water  
from him there. Then he placed the heavy skillet next to the pot,  
turned and headed back toward the patio.

About five feet away, he stopped, considering.

He'd been making progress with the dog slowly, baby steps every day.  
He no longer ran when Mulder was out on the patio, even if Mulder was  
moving about a good bit while out there. Bo only ran when other  
people came around now.

Trying to get Bo to trust him had become a sort of challenge to him,  
something he used to mark the days. The dog was Mulder's only real  
companion here in the desert. Earning his trust had become, for some  
reason, important to Mulder.

So today he thought he'd try adding something, pushing it a little  
more.

With that thought in mind, he turned slowly, squatted down on the  
ground, his elbows on his knees, holding very still. Sure enough, Bo  
had already started coming for the skillet, but he stopped suddenly  
as Mulder added this bit of uncharacteristic behavior. The dog's ears  
flattened more and he took a step backward.

"It's okay," Mulder said softly. "Come on." He added a little  
whistle, which the dog had always seemed to like.

Bo took a step toward him again, two back. Then he began to come to  
Mulder slowly, belly scraping the ground. The smell of the bacon and  
eggs was quite an enticement for the emaciated dog, and Mulder  
watched the black dog's black eyes dart back and forth from the  
skillet to him as it approached. The now-familiar whine started in  
the dog's throat.

"Bo..." Mulder cooed. He reached his hand out, snapped his fingers  
lightly. The dog whined again, but began to come forward, taking the  
steps to the skillet in little jerks and stops until he was in front  
of it, his nose coming over the side, his eyes still on Mulder.

"That's it," Mulder murmured, his hand still out. He watched the dog  
scarf down the food in huge mouthfuls, barely chewing.

From here, Mulder got a good look at him -- patches of hair missing  
on his sides, juts of vertebrae lining his back, large scabbed sores  
here and there. His ribs were like long fingers gripping him beneath  
his skin. But his head and face looked soft, long ears like black  
velvet flaps leaned over the pan.

Bo finished off every last morsel from the pan, looked up at Mulder,  
licking his chops.

"You still hungry?" Mulder asked, and a thought came to him. A can  
of Spam in the cabinet he remembered seeing on one of his forages  
through the ancient supplies Hosteen's brother had left behind. Since  
he'd rather die than eat the stuff himself, he thought Bo might like  
it.

After all, the stuff was basically dog food anyway, wasn't it? he  
mused.

He rose slowly and Bo continued to look at him, crouched and  
nervous, but did not run away. Then he returned to the trailer,  
fetching the can and opening it as he walked back outside. The dog  
was still waiting, sniffing the air again.

Mulder squatted down as before, held the can out as far toward the  
dog as he could. The can emitted the unmistakable odor of something  
meat-like into the air, and Bo turned his attention to it  
immediately. His ears came up again.

"Come on..."

It took several moments of the dog shifting from side to side, a few  
faint whines. Then, slowly, he came forward, putting one foot in the  
skillet as he walked over it toward Mulder, closing the space between  
them. Mulder held so still his legs began to cramp up, but he ignored  
them, unwilling to move.

Bo reached the can, stretched his neck out toward it, gave it a  
sniff, his eyes on Mulder's face. His long tongue came out and he  
licked the flat surface of the meat, like someone testing his food  
for poison.

He must have found it all right, because once he'd finished off the  
glistening layer of fat on the top and sides, he tried to fit his  
mouth into the can. His teeth knocked against the sides, no matter  
which way he tried to turn his head.

"Here, hang on," Mulder said in his most gentle voice. Moving  
slowly, he pulled the can toward his body, turned it upside down and  
gave it shake. It didn't come out, and Mulder realized he probably  
needed a can opener for the other end, or a knife to work it out. He  
had neither handy.

Sighing, he dug into it with his other hand, pulling out a mottled  
pink chunk of meat. Then he reached his hand toward the dog. Bo's  
ears went down again and he shied, and Mulder wondered immediately if  
he'd gone too far, if this was too much to ask of the animal, too  
soon to ask it.

He mentally chided himself at the image he must present -- a nearly  
40-year-old man squatting in front of a frightened dog, holding a  
handful of Spam. He chided himself for feeling the hopeful feeling he  
was, as if the dog eating from his hand meant something spectacular  
to the world.

He shook his head at himself, feeling foolish and pathetic.

But then Bo took another step forward, pushed his face toward  
Mulder's hand, sniffing again. There was a small sliver of meat  
clinging to the end of one of Mulder's fingers, and Bo's tongue came  
out, picking it off carefully. Mulder flattened his hand out a bit  
more, offering the main hunk.

With one final look at Mulder's face, the dog put his nose into  
Mulder's hand, pulling the meat into his mouth. Mulder felt Bo's soft  
muzzle rooting around on his palm as he ate and he found himself  
smiling. When Bo was done, Mulder reached in, pulled out another  
small handful, offered it again. Bo repeated his action, this time  
without hesitating at all.

This continued until Mulder was digging around in the rounded  
corners of the can with his fingers. Bo licked Mulder's fingers in  
earnest, his ears no longer flat against his head. His belly was even  
off the ground a bit.

As Mulder offered the last of the Spam to the dog, he set the can  
down, moving slowly. Then he touched the top of Bo's head with his  
fingers.

The dog slumped immediately but Mulder kept his hand where it was,  
since Bo did not run away. He cupped his palm around the dog's crown,  
chanced a light stroke. The dog allowed it, though he whined again.

"That's it," Mulder said quietly. "That's it..." He stroked his  
head, reached around and smoothed the dog's ear back, his thumb on  
Bo's cheek. "Good boy. That's a good boy..."

Bo's eyes darted away from Mulder's face then back again, cowering a  
bit under the touch still, but not moving away. He opened his mouth  
and began to pant. Mulder scratched his neck, moving underneath the  
frayed nylon collar that the dog still wore like some remnant of a  
previous life.

Mulder was still smiling at the simpleness of the gesture, though  
his eyes stung for a few seconds. He had no idea why.

"Mulder!" Victor Hosteen yelled from behind his house. "Quit messing  
around with that dog and come on! We're waiting for you!"

Bo turned quickly at the sound and saw Hosteen, every muscle going  
taut under Mulder's hand. Then he bolted for the land behind the  
trailer once again.

Mulder's hand was still poised in front of him for a few seconds, as  
if the dog were still beneath it, as he watched him go.

Then he stood from his crouch, raised his hand in defeat to Victor  
for the second time that day.

"All right," he called. "I'll be right there." And he turned to go  
back into the trailer to get his denim jacket and clean himself up.

 

*********

 

8:36 a.m.

 

Scully made her way down the dirt road that connected the trailer  
where she was living to Albert Hosteen's house, her toiletries bag  
tucked underneath her arm, a towel thrown over her shoulder. It was a  
fairly long walk, and she took it slowly, looking at the barren  
landscape around her as she went, soaking in the early morning sun,  
her face turning up toward it as it peeked back from where it had  
been hidden briefly behind a cloud.

She'd felt some calmer the past few mornings, since her talk with  
Hosteen the night of the meteor shower, four nights back. The  
conversation had initially upset her in many ways. But since then it  
had released something in her, like a clenched fist easing open.

Hosteen knew about what she'd been through, but hadn't treated her  
any differently. He continued to come nightly with some concoction  
from his kitchen for them both, built fires, sat with her.

They'd talked less since that night, seemingly by some unspoken  
mutual understanding. It was as if he had said what he'd meant to say  
to her that night, and since then, he was letting it simmer, not  
pressing for any further information or offering any further advice.  
He'd simply told stories about his children, stories from when they  
were young or ones about what they were doing now. Sometimes he  
talked about Eda, his wife. She'd listened with genuine interest,  
though it was hard for her to engage with him much herself. Her mind  
was always occupied, her feelings churned.

Sometimes he seemed to sense this and would let the quiet stretch,  
appearing to be deep in thought himself. He'd been that way last  
night especially. She wondered about it as she walked, wondered what  
might be concerning him.

She made it to Albert's double-wide trailer, came around the side  
and was immediately confronted by Ghost, who was standing, looking  
half asleep, next to the patio. He was fully saddled and bridled,  
several things secured to the saddle at the back. There was a tent, a  
sleeping bag. A large full bag was situated behind them, sitting high  
on the horse's gray rump.

She put her hand on the horse's nose as she passed, then rubbed the  
soft skin of his chin. The animal responded by nuzzling into her  
hand, rooting around for a treat. The thought made her smile,  
remembering holding sugar cubes flat on her palm up to the horses she  
spent time with from time to time when she was growing up.

She knocked, and was immediately told to come in from the kitchen.  
Entering, she was aware of the smell of things cooking. Many  
different things. She followed the smells to the kitchen, where  
Hosteen stood, stirring in a big pot.

"Good morning," she said, and he turned and smiled to her. She  
smiled faintly back.

"Good morning," he replied, returned his attention to the pot.

"What are you making so early in the morning?" she asked, gestured  
to the dirty bowls and pans laying around the room. There was a  
skillet on the stove filled with cooling oil from fry bread, which  
she'd grown to love the taste of.

"Indian chili," he replied, reached over and picked up an empty  
packet of seasoning. It said "Old El Paso" on it, and she smiled  
wider, shook her head as he turned back and winked.

"You're going somewhere on Ghost, I see," she said, lifting a paper  
towel off a plate and revealing the pile of fry bread.

"No," he said, finished stirring and tapped the wooden spoon on the  
side of the pot, set it down on a napkin on the counter.

Her brow creased in puzzlement. "But I saw him out front -- he's  
loaded down with camping equipment and things."

Hosteen was nodding now. "Yes," he said simply. "But I am not going  
anywhere on him." He looked at her, a serious expression on his face.  
"You are."

She was so surprised she actually laughed. "I am?" she repeated, and  
the smile came off her face as looked at his more closely. "You're  
serious."

He nodded, checked the oven, where heavy-topped blueberry muffins  
were baking. "Yes. Remember I told you that I would tell you if I  
thought of where you might look to find your answers?"

She looked at him, confusion coming over her. "Yes, but I thought  
you were speaking figuratively," she replied, and let the napkin drop  
again on the fry bread.

He shook his head and went to the other side of the table. He picked  
up a map with a red line squiggled on its surface to a red "X,"  
handed it to her.

It was a topographical map, not a city. Nothing but land,  
elevations, small lines all over it, the blue of a river or wash. And  
then a red path that led from the only road visible on the map into  
the desert beyond it.

"That place," he said, stepping closer to her and tapping on the  
"X." "That is where you will find everything you need."

Scully looked at the map, then up at him. "There's nothing there,"  
she said.

"It's not on the map, what's there," he replied. "You will see it."

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes dropped. "Mr. Hosteen, if it's a  
hogan or a ceremonial place, I should tell you that I don't share  
your faith, and I don't think--"

"You can bring your own faith with you. It will be welcomed there."  
His voice was gentle, but he was clearly not going to take much  
argument from her.

"Welcomed by whom?" she asked, getting baffled now.

He smiled a touch. "By who you find there."

She looked at him for a few seconds, cocked her head, trying to  
figure him out. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to find  
something to say. He was being so strange and cryptic. If she didn't  
respect him so much, she might have gotten irritated by it.

Then she looked down at the map, glanced at the legend, then at the  
line again, which snaked along the thin river on the map.

"That's got to be several days ride away," she protested. "And I  
haven't ridden since--"

"I know, since you were young," he said quietly. "You don't ride  
Ghost -- you sit on him and he goes. Not to worry about that. It will  
all come back to you. And this place is only one day and half of  
another away from here, depending on how much you stop. You'll find  
places where the boys and I have camped along the way. Fire pits,  
that sort of thing."

"But with these people looking for me...it wouldn't--"

"No one will find you out there," he said with conviction. "Anyone  
looking for you will come in on the road to do it, not through the  
desert. You will be safe, I promise you."

He reached down and touched the spot again. "It's time for you to go  
to this place."

She looked at the map, at his face. "Why is it time?"

He quirked that same tiny smile. "You are ready to go there. You  
were not when you first got here. But I think you are now." He  
shrugged. "Plus that, what good does it do you to sit around that  
trailer all day? You might as well go out and see the land. And that  
trail along the wash is the best way to do that."

When she hesitated again, shook her head, he continued. "It's bound  
to be good for your spirit to get out some. And you will still be by  
yourself, as you've wanted to be." He gestured to the kitchen. "I  
have made food for you to take with you. Everything is taken care  
of. "

She shook her head firmly this time, bristling at the cryptic  
quality of what he was saying, at him doing so much.

"No," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I won't go."

He looked at her for a moment as she lay the map on the table. She  
could feel his eyes on her, probing her. She felt her cheeks flush  
again under the intensity of his gaze.

"What?" she asked finally, unable to bear the scrutiny or the  
silence any longer. She was once again defensive with him.

"Hm," he said, his face blank. "I was trying to understand what it  
is you are so afraid of."

Her mouth hung open for a second before she snapped it closed again.  
"Afraid?" she repeated. "I'm not afraid."

"I think you are," he said gently, and picked up the map, looked at  
it and not at her now.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," she said, looking at the map,  
too. The thought of him thinking of her that way made her more  
indignant.

He smiled at her. "Then go," he said, and handed her the map.

She blew out a frustrated breath, then she looked around the room  
for a long moment, at the bowls, the pans, the food all around her.

She had to admit that besides being annoyed, she was also touched by  
his efforts. This made her relent a bit, giving way to a new feeling  
to replace the ire.

It *was* fear. It coursed through her, low, like an undertow.

She pushed it down fiercely.

Then she looked at him, and nodded, folding the map as she did so.

"All right," she said, composing herself. "I'll go."

He smiled, and returned to the stove, nodding, stirred the chili.  
Not knowing what else there was to say, she went down the hallway  
toward the bathroom to shower before she got on her way.

 

************

11:33 a.m.

 

The black and white Paint horse let out a cry, high and shrill in  
the air, and its front legs came up as it reared suddenly, tossing  
its head from side to side in a clear display of anger and sending up  
a cloud of dust around it.

Mulder held onto the horn of the saddle as hard as he could, but in  
doing so he let go of the reins, leaving the horse's head slack. It  
stomped down, then reared again, and this time there was no holding  
on. Mulder went tumbling off the back, over the horse's pied rump and  
onto the sandy ground of the corral in an undignified heap.

The horse trotted off across the corral, still shaking its head  
against the slack reins, its tail swishing.

Mulder groaned as he rolled over, caking himself with dust, and he  
pushed himself up slowly from the ground into a sitting position. All  
around him, the sound of laughter and clapping.

He looked up at the corral fence where the other men were sitting,  
like a bunch of birds on a wire, watching this bit of sport. His face  
screwed up in pain. This was the fourth fall from the horse in the  
past hour, and the laughter was starting to piss him off.

He slapped hard at the sand on his knee, shaking his head. He could  
feel a flush rising on his cheeks as anger rose in him.

"Very funny," he growled, standing, tenderly stepping down on one  
leg as his hip protested for a few steps. The laughter pealed again  
at his comment.

"Go get that horse, Mulder!" Victor called from his perch near the  
gate.

Mulder eyed him, then the horse at the other side of the corral.  
"Are you sure this horse is actually one of the ones you've already  
*broken,* Victor?"

Another cloud of laughter.

"Oh yeah, he's the one everyone learns to ride on."

Mulder looked at the horse, who was glaring back at him. "Does he  
have a name, this wonderful animal I'm learning on?"

"Yes," Victor replied, and said an elegant word in Navajo.

"What does that mean in English?" Mulder asked, dusting off his sore  
ass.

Victor flashed his thousand-watt grin. "'Killer.'"

The men roared again.

Mulder gaped. "You're teaching me to ride on a horse named  
'Killer'?" he asked, indignant.

"Yes," Victor replied. "He's the one to learn on, like I said. Kind  
of like learning to drive stick-shift before you learn automatic. If  
you can ride him, you can ride anything. You've just got to learn to  
keep the right pressure on his mouth -- not too tight, not too loose -  
\- and not show any fear to him. Then you won't get thrown."

Mulder looked at the other horses saddled around the edge of the  
corral outside the fence, pointed to a white horse with longish hair  
that was standing with its eyes closed, gnawing absently on its bit.

"What about that one? That one looks like a good one to learn on.  
What's his name?"

Victor said another word in Navajo. "It means something  
like...'Wimpy.'"

"That sounds better," Mulder grumbled.

"Nope," Hosteen replied. "Get that horse, Mulder. You know what they  
say about getting right back on. It's true, you know. You'll get it."

Mulder sighed, pulling his dignity around himself as the men talked  
amongst themselves, chewing their tobacco, still laughing now and  
again to one another. He made his way across the corral to where the  
horse stood, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Show him who's boss!" one of the other men called. There were  
general grunts of agreement from the others.

Mulder slowed as he approached, thinking that approaching the horse  
from the back might be better this time. Sort of sneaking up on him,  
he thought. Maybe he could seem less threatening if he didn't  
approach him head on?

With this thought in mind, he walked up to the horse from behind,  
running his hand over the horse's flank as he did so.

"Mulder! Don't!" Victor called.

Mulder heard the warning, but it was too late.

Killer kicked out hard with his back leg, catching Mulder in the gut  
and nearly knocking him to the ground again. Instead, Mulder  
staggered back a few steps, holding his stomach, gasping for breath  
from the blow to his solar plexus.

There was no laughter this time. Just winces and general sounds of  
sympathy from the fence. He could barely hear them over the rasping  
cough he let out and the roaring of blood in his ears.

Behind him, Mulder was vaguely aware of someone jumping down from  
the fence, of footsteps coming nearer. Victor came up beside him,  
leaned over with him so their faces were level, Victor's hand going  
on Mulder's hunched back.

Mulder coughed again, wheezed in another breath.

"You okay, man?" he asked, and Mulder turned to look at him. His  
face felt purple, his eyes suddenly too small for their sockets. He  
jerked a nod.

"Yeah," he managed, and stood straight slowly, his hand still on his  
stomach.

"You never come at a horse from behind," Victor chided. "Especially  
not a nasty sonofabitch like this one."

"I see that now," Mulder rasped. He looked down at his white t-shirt  
and saw the perfect brownish print of a horse's hoof right beneath  
his rib cage.

Jesus...

He felt like an ass, and had a sudden wave of pity for himself. This  
past couple of weeks had not been his best, and it didn't appear to  
be getting any better...

Victor went around him, up to the horse, and took the animal by the  
reins. "I think that's enough for you for one day," he said kindly.  
"You can watch us break a few, pick up some things that way."

Mulder watched him take hold of the reins, give the horse a tug, and  
a part of him wanted nothing more to agree with Victor, to go sit it  
out and lick his wounds.

But something else in him balked at that, flaring in him.

He'd spent the past two months without control over anything in his  
life, treading carefully everywhere he stepped. Running. Walking on  
ice with Scully, waiting for a crack to appear beneath his feet. He'd  
lost his job, his credibility, his future as he'd envisioned it. He'd  
lost Scully to the ghosts that haunted her.

He was sick of losing things.

And the last thing he wanted to do now was lose himself, even in  
small ways. Through resignation. Self-pity. And the sadness and  
loneliness that clung to him now, coated him as finely as the dust.

So he drew himself up a little straighter, shook his head, reached  
his hand out toward Victor and the horse.

"No," he said, regaining his voice a bit. "No, I want to try again.  
Just..." He blew out a still-painful breath. "Just keep telling me  
what I'm doing wrong. I want to get this right."

Victor stepped closer, put his hand on Mulder's arm. "Hey, I know  
we're all laughing at you, but we don't mean anything by it. Everyone  
gets laughed at when they're learning like this. You got nothing to  
prove with us. Really."

Mulder shook his head again, took the reins, pulled the horse toward  
him. It came reluctantly, its neck stuck far out as it tried to hold  
its ground.

"I'll be fine," he said, and, holding the reins a bit tighter around  
the horn, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself, weary,  
back up into the saddle.

 

***********

6:13 p.m.

 

For hours, nothing but the sound of Ghost's footsteps on the hard  
trail, the creak of old saddle leather as her body rocked back and  
forth with each step, the faint clatter of her supplies in the nylon  
bag secured behind the saddle. The day waned into the blue and gold  
of dusk, darkness coming soon.

Scully had begun looking for a campsite a ways back, wanting to get  
settled in somewhere before it got too dark, and she finally found  
one, the obvious crater of a fire pit filled with black ash logs, a  
pile of ragged wood next to it, a flat expanse around it surrounded  
by sagebrush.

The thin river in the wash, which she'd stopped beside several times  
to give the horse drinks and to splash the heat and dust off herself,  
was behind her, just down from the rise where the campsite was  
situated. She could see it shining like glass in the fading light,  
hear its soft whisper in the quiet.

Satisfied with the spot, she dismounted, her legs and hips  
complaining bitterly at the day's ride, and began to unpack the  
equipment from Ghost, who stood lightly tied to the branches of a  
small mesquite, looking as tired as she felt. When she'd taken all  
the things off his back, she removed the saddle, the sweaty shape of  
it still pressed to his gray sides.

There was no need to remove his bridle, since he wore a simple  
halter with reins attached, no bit in his mouth. Hosteen had been  
right about riding the horse. You sat on him and he went. It had been  
an easy day for her that way.

Hosteen had given her several small blocks of chemically treated  
pressed wood to start her fires, and it didn't take but a few moments  
for her to have the dry wood flaming, sending up small bits of red  
ash into the falling night that burned for a few seconds and then  
went out.

Beside its light and heat, she set up the small tent, tossed the  
sleeping bag into it and then opened up the nylon bag. She pulled out  
a blackened tin camping pot, poured some chili into it and set the  
pot at the edge of the flames with a long stick through its thin  
handle.

While she waited for it to heat, she pulled out the feedbag for  
Ghost, filled it with the small sack of oats Hosteen had sent along  
on the back of the saddle. She put the feedbag on the horse and he  
began chewing idly, seeming too tired to be bothered with eating.

She understood the sentiment. She stretched, her back popping in  
protest.

Her hands on her hips, her jeans feeling thick with dust and the  
tanktop and denim shirt she wore doing little to chase off the coming  
chill of night, Scully stood beside the fire, staring into it. A  
small wind came, rustling the flames and sending a soft note into the  
air.

She closed her eyes, let out a long slow breath.

He was there, in the glow of the lamplight beside her bed, his chest  
gold in the light, rising and falling in the shadows as he slept. She  
was on her stomach beside him, nude, watching him sleep, her chin on  
her folded arms. Then she rolled onto her side, languid, her hand  
reaching out to touch the soft skin of his cheek, smoothing her thumb  
over his lips to awaken him. The warmth of the desire she felt and  
that came from him as he rolled over on top of her, her hips cradling  
his, his hands cupped beneath her head. No words as they covered  
themselves with the room's velvet shadows, becoming nothing but heat  
and sweat and the rhythm of breath.

Her eyes stung with tears beneath her closed lids, her brow  
furrowing. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.

Her guard against the memories of him had been slowly weakening  
since the night with Hosteen. God, she missed him. Not just his body  
and what her body had with his. She missed all of him.

The small smile he gave her in the basement office as she looked up  
from her work and saw him watching her. Her smile in return...

His hand in hers on a park bench, a story he told her, eyes she'd  
seen darkened with sadness for years filled with laughter as he told  
it...

The tears fell now, slipping beneath her clenched lids. Her hand  
shook against her mouth and she pulled it away, folding it into a  
fist.

Then Hosteen's words came back to her:

You can be who you were again.

You *will* be her again.

You just have to search out what you need to find her.

She opened her eyes and looked out over the desert, wondering what  
she was doing out here, wondering what it was she was searching for,  
what she hoped to find.

There's nothing out here, she thought sadly. Nothing out here at all.

The wind picked up a bit, ruffling the strands of hair not pulled  
back from her face, pushing the flames back.

Around her, outside the halo of light the fire threw, night had  
completely fallen. She felt alone within it for a moment, the tears  
still rimming her eyes.

Then, way off in the distance, the lights of Farmington shone, a  
patch of brightness, dots of color clustered together like fallen  
stars still glowing on the earth. She looked at it and it comforted  
her somehow in a way she couldn't name, even though it was dozens of  
miles away.

Around her, a silent world of darkness.

But across the desert, a city perched on the rim of the horizon as  
though waiting for her.

A city like an unspoken promise.

A city of light.

 

*********

 

END OF CHAPTER 14. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15.


	4. Chapter 4

***********

FBI HEADQUARTERS  
WASHINGTON , D.C.  
APRIL 5  
9:14 a.m.

 

Walter Skinner sat, unmoving, at his desk, staring down at the piece  
of paper in his hand while he rubbed his forehead with the other,  
massaging hard enough to nearly leave a bruise across his brow.

He'd been staring at the piece of paper for several minutes, since  
Kimberly had crept in with it and lain it on the corner of his desk,  
putting it far away from him and not answering when he asked what it  
was. She'd waited for him to look at it first, given him time to scan  
it.

An official government "Wanted" flyer, this one from the NSA. Two  
pictures. Mulder and Scully. Both pictures now equally sized across  
the top. Beneath both the pictures, words in bold letters.  
"Conspiracy." "Terrorism." "Murder."

Not just referring to Mulder now. Referring to them both.

"This was on the news last night at eleven, as well, sir," Kimberly  
said softly, like an apology. "I saw it before I went to bed."

He'd looked up at her in surprise, feeling like an ass that his own  
secretary had found out about this recent development before he had  
himself. And she knew it, too, judging from her reaction -- the  
apologetic, worried expression on her face.

Padden, the master of keeping things quiet when he wanted to (the  
bastard, he thought bitterly) had done it again. Skinner had felt his  
face redden as he looked at Kimberly.

And now he was taking his little trick and going public with it on a  
large scale for the first time. Turning up the heat on all this.

It would get a huge reaction from the higher ups. More pressure for  
the FBI to step up its own investigation, which it had been wary of  
doing because of the task force, wary because it wanted this as quiet  
as it could get. The FBI had taken enough hits lately.

But that was all about to change. The FBI would have to act now if  
the media were involved.

He fingered the poster. "What are people saying." It came out flat,  
a statement.

Kimberly shook her head. "No one knows what to think exactly, sir,"  
she said. "But from what I've overheard this morning, I think it's  
harder for people to believe the charges about Agent Scully, and it's  
casting doubt on the charges against Agent Mulder, as well." She met  
his gaze. "I think it might be working against the task force to draw  
her into this. Just from what I've overheard so far."

Skinner nodded, returned his gaze to the flyer. He was pleased to  
get this piece of news from the FBI gossip circle, in which Kimberly  
was an enthusiastic participant. He'd come to rely on her to keep her  
finger on the pulse of the Hoover Building.

"How many calls from the press so far?"

"Nine," she replied. "I'm telling them all you're unavailable for  
comment."

He nodded again. "Keep doing that," he said. "And refer them to the  
Public Relations Office, if you're not already. I'm sure the Director  
has come up with something to say by now. I'll let him do the talking  
until I come up with something."

She'd nodded. "All right, sir." She turned to go.

"And Kimberly?" he said softly.

She returned her gaze to him, and he met it solemnly.

"Thank you."

She did not smile, the same concerned expression on her face.  
"You're welcome." And then she did go out the door, closing it behind  
her.

Skinner had kept his eye on the poster ever since, staring at the  
faces, the words that were underneath them that had no place there,  
beneath these faces he knew so well. Anger simmered in him, but not  
surprise.

He knew this was Padden's doing. And *all* Padden's doing. The  
clandestine meeting he'd had with Granger two days ago had told him  
that. There had been no mention of it in their brief conversation in  
the car ride from the Mall at 14th and Constitution where Skinner had  
picked Granger up, the young agent camouflaging himself with the  
tourists.

But other things *had* come up.

Complicated things.

He sighed as he remembered it, now swiveling his chair toward the  
window, the hand with the flyer in it falling into his lap as if it  
were too heavy to hold up any longer.

"I wish there were an easier way for us to meet during the week than  
this," he'd said tightly to Granger, getting lost in the traffic  
going down Constitution. "This still feels risky."

"Any way we meet, even on the weekends, is going to be risky,"  
Granger'd replied, pulling the camera off over his head and laying it  
on the seat between them. "And this was hard enough to manage, with  
Padden watching my every move at the CIA."

Granger had reached into his leather jacket pocket and drawn out his  
spiral notebook, flipping the cover over.

"I've got the task force combing the El Centro area, just as we'd  
planned," he said, adjusting his small silver glasses, a habit  
Skinner had come to associate with him. "They're still concentrating  
their energy on Southern California, so they should be safe wherever  
you've got them as long as it's not there."

"It's not there," Skinner had replied.

Granger had nodded. "I went to the motel in Afton this past  
weekend," he'd said, and Skinner could hear some strange tone in his  
voice that made him more nervous. Something was wrong there.

"What did you find out? Something bad, I can tell that."

"Well, it's bad and it's good," Granger had begun. "Mulder WAS  
there, under the name 'George Hale,' just like he said. I've got a  
positive ID from the motel owner who checked him in and out. That's  
the good part."

"Was he there by himself?" Skinner asked. He recalled snapping a  
little in his impatience.

Granger had hesitated. "No," he said at last. "That's the bad part."

"Who was he with?" Again, he could remember the words coming out  
clipped.

Granger balked a bit, looking down at his notebook.

"He was with Agent Scully."

Skinner remembered the sinking feeling, the inward groan.

He'd cleared his throat, glancing out the side window, trying to  
appear casual. "It's strange that he would keep a meeting with her a  
secret," he said as though he were discussing the mileage on the car.

Granger looked at him. "I think if we're both honest with ourselves,  
sir, we know the answer to why he would do that." He paused. "And  
that's how everyone else is going to see it, even if it weren't  
true."

Well, no use trying to play dumb anymore, he remembered thinking  
when he'd looked back at Granger's sympathetic expression. Not to  
himself, not to Granger. Not now that there was proof of it for God  
and all the world to see...

Skinner rose, going to the window, his habit when he had a problem  
to solve that didn't readily present a solution. He sighed, crossing  
his arms, a finger coming up to cover his tightly closed lips.

Of course he had always suspected there might be something going on  
between the two of them. They were too dedicated to each other, too  
much so in some way he couldn't quite name to just be partners. And  
the way they looked at each other...hell, he envied it sometimes.  
Envied Mulder especially (he had to admit) and envied them both for  
what they appeared to have together.

But if something *had* been going on, he thought they'd managed to  
keep it out of the work, out of the way.

Not anymore.

It was in the way now, for certain. No one but Scully to vouch for  
Mulder, and no way to do it without damning herself for  
unprofessional conduct for violating undercover protocols in the  
process.

He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes as cars nosed around below  
him on the street, a mass of early-morning traffic weaving for  
positions.

What they were doing wasn't forbidden. It wasn't that. It looked  
like shit, he thought dejectedly, even in good times, though.  
Unprofessional, at best. And given these circumstances, it looked  
even worse. Their relationship could be used to bring them both down.  
The task force and OPR could discount their cover stories for each  
other, and blame their running on the basis of the relationship, two  
lovers who would do anything and say anything to keep the other out  
of trouble.

"Dammit..." He rubbed his eyes harder as he mumbled the curse to  
himself. He could vaguely hear Kimberly's phone ringing again and it  
made his stomach ache.

He stood for a long time looking out the window, his arms crossed.  
He wondered how this could get any more fucked up for him.

The answer came with the door bursting open.

He spun at the sound, irritated at the intrusion, his mouth open to  
say so. Then his mouth snapped closed.

Margaret Scully.

Kimberly was behind her, holding her arm, which she jerked away hard  
enough that Skinner could hear the fabric whooshing from between  
Kimberly's fingers.

And if looks could kill...

Oh, shit.

"Mrs. Scully, please," Kimberly was saying, putting her hand out  
again. Skinner put his own out.

"No, Kimberly, it's all right," he said gently. "Thank you, though.  
Hold my calls, if you would."

Kimberly looked at him with concern, then nodded and closed the door  
behind her again.

For her part, Margaret Scully had stopped about five feet from the  
desk, still as a statue. The only movement was the rising and falling  
of her chest -- fast and shallow. He was almost afraid to speak  
again. He jammed his hands in his pockets, the gesture's unconscious  
attempt to guard his nuts not lost on him. He looked down at the  
floor, then back up at her. She was still staring at him, accusation  
shooting across the room like poison arrows.

"Mrs. Scully," he said. "Why don't you sit down."

She didn't sit. But she did move. She reached down into the purse  
slung over her shoulder and pulled out a sloppily folded piece of  
paper, unfolded it and held it toward him.

"Mr. Skinner," she said, low and dangerous. "Would you mind telling  
me what this is?"

He winced as he saw the flyer, the same one on his desk. "Where did  
you get that?" he asked gently.

"From a reporter from the 'Washington Post,'" she snapped. "Who came  
to my house this morning at seven a.m. He was in front of three  
camera crews from the local television stations, by the way."

He shook his head, looking away, his jaw clenching. "I'm so sorry,"  
he said, looking into her face now, his voice soft. "I'm so sorry for  
all of this."

"How could you let this happen?" she asked, her voice rising in  
volume now as she shook the flyer at him. "You *know* this isn't  
true. About either one of them. But especially about my daughter! How  
could you let this HAPPEN?!"

Tears flooded her eyes as she said the last loud enough to rattle  
the picture of Ashcroft over his shoulder.

He looked at her, guilt smashing into him like a right cross. He  
took a step toward her. "It's not coming from the FBI," he said,  
though the words sounded hollow to him even as he said them. "I don't  
have any control over what's being done. I can't stop it yet."

"Well, what the hell ARE you good for then?" she said, her voice a  
low, hard growl now, the tears racing down her cheeks. Her hand came  
up to cover her mouth. It was shaking. She choked on a sob, her eyes  
squeezing closed.

What the hell am I good for *indeed,* he thought, cringing. She'd  
said aloud a question he'd been asking himself for months.

"Please..." he said as tenderly as he could, his hands coming out of  
his pockets as he came toward her. He got close enough to put a hand  
on her shoulder, and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk with  
the other. "Please sit down."

She let him guide her to the chair, and she sat stiffly, wiping at  
her face, her hand still trembling. He angled the one next to her  
toward her and sat himself.

"Can I get you something?" he asked. "Some water, coffee..."

"No," she said, her voice hoarse, as though the yelling she'd just  
done had ruined her voice. "No, nothing." She levelled her gaze at  
him again, the look more pleading than venomous now.

Her hand clenched around the flyer in her hand, crinkling it.

"Who is this coming from?" she asked, her eyes shining with tears.  
She was trying to pull her control back around her, straightening her  
sweater. It was like watching someone try to cover themselves with a  
dish towel.

Skinner leaned close when he answered. He'd never quite trusted his  
office, though he'd had it swept twice by the Gunmen and once by his  
own people. He couldn't help his paranoia. Not with all the things  
that were going on.

"It's coming from the NSA," he said quietly. "A man named Padden who  
is in charge of a task force that is investigating Owen Curran, the  
man suspected of bombing the Irish Embassy a few months ago."

"What does Dana have to do with that? Or Fox?" she asked sharply.

Skinner bit his lip. "I can't tell you specifics, because it  
involves classified things, but there are...circumstances that this  
man Padden is using to try to implicate them both with Curran. He was  
only after Mulder at first, but now he's going after your daughter,  
as well, apparently. I just found out about this about a half an hour  
ago myself."

She sniffed. "It's because she's running, isn't it? Running with  
Fox."

Skinner nodded. "I think that has a lot to do with it, yes," he  
replied.

She looked away as though deep in thought. A tender expression  
crossed her face, though it was still tinged with sadness.

"She won't leave him," she said softly, and gestured with the flyer.  
"Even with this. She won't come in unless they come in together."

"I know," he said, nodding.

She cocked her head as she looked up at him, as though weighing his  
response, its implications.

"Yes," he said. "I *know.*"

Her gaze softened, as did his. She nodded, looked down, almost  
seeming... embarrassed?... to be speaking about this. He knew the  
feeling. It felt intensely personal.

He cleared his throat. "Look, I'm trying to do a few things," he  
said, and she looked back up at him expectantly. "I'm trying to find  
some evidence for at least Mulder's whereabouts during some key  
timeframes that are under suspicion. I've got information on one of  
them that might help clear both of them because they were together."

Margaret nodded. "Good," she said faintly. "That sounds good."

Skinner continued. "I'm working on one other lead I have for Mulder.  
I'm going to see about that as soon as I can. Hopefully with those  
two things in place, I'll be able to go to Padden and he'll call this  
off and look where he *should* be looking. At Curran."

Her eyes looked very young as she looked at him, though the rest of  
her looked like it had aged 10 years since he'd seen her at the  
Memorial. "You think that will convince him?" she asked.

Skinner pursed his lips. "I'm not sure," he said. "I hope so. The  
evidence against Mulder and your daughter is very circumstantial. It  
shouldn't be that hard to undermine with a few solid facts."

I hope, he thought, but he didn't say it out loud.

She looked at her hands as they held the poster, her eyes on it  
again. "What do I tell all these reporters?" she asked, sounding  
lost.

"Do what I assume you're already doing," he said firmly. "Deny that  
she's involved. Call the charges false and tell them what she's like,  
who she really is. And keep doing it. But don't mention any of what  
I've told you today. It's better if no one knows I've told you about  
this until I get things in place."

She nodded. "All right," she said. To his surprise, one of her hands  
came out and settled softly on his forearm. "I'm...I'm sorry about  
what I said before. This isn't your fault. I just..."

"I understand," he said, and covered her hand with his own. "There's  
no need to apologize. I know you're going through hell with this  
right now. Between her being gone for so long and now this."

She managed a tiny smile. "Thank you for your forgiveness," she  
murmured, and he nodded, mustered a gentle look in return.

With that, she stood, and he with her.

"I'll be in touch with any information I can share," he said.

She reached her hand out. "Thank you, Mr. Skinner. I know you'll do  
your best. For both of them."

"I will." He said it with conviction as he took her hand, gave it a  
squeeze. "Try not to worry, if you can. They'll be all right. They've  
always been lucky that way."

She nodded. "Luck's a funny thing, though, isn't it?" she murmured  
sadly. "You never know when it's going to run out."

He said nothing to that. They both knew she was right.

He watched her go, watched the door close almost silently behind  
her, a calmer, but almost resigned, sound. It was a stark  
juxtaposition to the noise it had made when she came in.

 

***********

ALONG DEAD MAN'S WASH  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
NEAR TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
2:39 p.m.

 

Scully was high on the trail beside the wash, a light rain falling  
steadily, pattering the surface of the thin river that ran through it  
into a million ripples, the sand beneath the horse's feet growing  
darker as the rain continued to fall.

Off in the distance she could see the heart of the storm  
approaching, miles off. A dark canopy of cloud that seemed to reach  
nearly to the ground, the occasional flare of lightning dancing off  
the tops of the mesas. Thunder echoed, catching on the crags of rock  
that climbed all around her.

She wore an army surplus rain poncho that seemed to grow heavier  
with the rain, draping down her sides to cover her legs, the musty  
smelling garment keeping her dry. She did not wear the hood, though,  
preferring to allow the rain to settle on her pulled-back hair, her  
face. Wet strands of hair framed her cheeks from the earlier downpour  
of the early edge of the storm. She pushed them back, curving them  
behind her ears.

Ghost sneezed, a ruffling sound, tossing his head down in the  
process. She had the reins so slack that his tug on them with that  
movement jolted her out of the introspection she'd been in for hours,  
the nervous anticipation that had gripped her despite all her efforts  
to hold it at bay.

She pulled out the map from beneath the poncho, checked the  
landmarks she could identify on the terrain around her, the sharp  
bend of the wash the map showed visible in the distance. The area  
marked by the "X" on the map was at that bend. She was getting close,  
and felt herself tensing up more at the thought.

What would she find there?

She'd been asking herself that question for hours, since she'd risen  
and awkwardly packed up the tent, the cooking supplies, rinsing the  
metal dishes in the wash before she'd placed them in the nylon bag.  
Since she'd mounted Ghost and gotten on her way, the sky already  
darkened with wool-colored clouds, the color of the horse's soft back  
and ears.

She folded the map up, tucked it back under the poncho to protect it  
from the rain. She really didn't need it at this point. The trail was  
well-trodden, easy to follow and the only path in sight. Scrubby  
plants squatted around it, the color of green ash.

There it was -- the stinging in her eyes again. Her emotions were so  
close to the surface today, and she pushed at them. It was like  
pushing a spider web off herself.

She reached up and wiped her eyes roughly, blew out a breath. The  
emotion was without thought, nothing in her mind to anchor it to. The  
memory she'd had last night of making love with Mulder had been the  
only attachment to any feeling she could pinpoint. But these feelings  
welling in her today were different from the bittersweet sadness she  
felt over her thoughts of him. They were heavier, darker, and almost  
desperate in their intensity.

She needed to reach the clearing marked on that map. She needed to  
know whom she would meet there, the person or persons that Hosteen  
had referred to, what she would find at that place that would give  
her all her answers as he'd promised.

Unable to fully push the feelings down, she tapped Ghost with her  
heels lightly, and he obediently picked up his pace, coming as close  
to a trot as he could without breaking his gait. It made her feel  
somewhat better to be moving more quickly now, though the emotions  
still crackled in her.

Up a large rise, down the other side. Another rise, the bend of the  
river edging closer. She scanned the ground ahead of her, looking for  
any sign of life. She wondered about anyone who could live this far  
away from the knot of farms that made up the town of Two Grey Hills.  
She wondered what kind of person would be out here at all.

A rocky outcropping ahead, the trail curving around it. She followed  
it around, the ground rising again in elevation. She pulled the map  
out again, noted the rise in elevation on the USGS map at the "X."

Then she found herself in a large clearing, a single mesquite tree  
in front of her. She was on a cliff overlooking the river, a view of  
a butte in the distance. And beyond that...

Nothing.

The trail ended here at this precipice, the tree guarding the edge,  
half its roots seeming to extend out into the air. A fire pit sat  
like a small crater in the middle of the clearing, a small stack of  
wood beside it.

Ghost stopped on his own, bobbed his head again toward the ground,  
sniffing.

The rain began to fall harder, the storm coming closer from the west.

Scully looked around, her chest beginning to rise and fall quickly.  
She slid off the horse, her feet hitting the wet ground, the rain  
setting off a patter on the slick material of the poncho. She made  
her way to the cliff edge, looking at the river below. Then she did a  
slow 360 turn, her hands going to her forehead to shield her eyes  
from the rain.

Ghost stood in the middle of the clearing, one of his back ankles  
turned up as he stood in repose. He cocked his ear at her as she  
looked at him, frustrated tears coming fast now as her chest heaved.  
She bit down on her bottom lip, turned back toward the river, which  
also just stared back, indifferent as the rain.

"Son of a *bitch*..." she said, gripping the stray strands of hair  
not caught in her pony tail with her fists and pulling, her face  
screwing into a sob. She felt sick to her stomach, the sob wrenching  
her.

To have come all this way. And for what?

For *nothing,* she thought, anguished.

She thought of Hosteen back in his home, pictured him smiling at his  
private joke at tricking her into getting out of the trailer.

Fury surged in her.

"You bastard," she said bitterly, and coughed out another sob,  
covering her eyes as though afraid someone would see her tears.

She sank down, feeling beaten down by just the rain, until she sat  
near the edge of the cliff. She pulled her knees up against her chest  
and leaned forward, her forehead on them, her arms covering her head.

Her sobs broke over her, one after another, like harsh waves.

The lightning stayed off to the north, but the rain continued to  
fall on her even harder, unforgiving.

Gradually, the storm pushed eastward, darkening the sky in a palette  
of grays.

 

*********

 

END OF CHAPTER 15a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 15b.

 

********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
4:50 p.m.

 

Despite the enormous pain in his side, like a stitch after running  
too hard for too long, Mulder scampered after the lamb that had  
broken away from the herd.

He and the other men were rounding the sheep up, moving them through  
an unfenced area to the pen where they spent the nights. All of them  
carried long sticks to bump them into one moving mass, and dogs  
darted in and out from the perimeters of the herd, nipping the  
stragglers into line.

This lamb didn't seem to take the hint and had taken off for the  
house. Mulder caught him just as he was about to make the front yard.  
Mulder reached down and picked him up, an arm behind the lamb's back  
legs and the other around his front, hefting the animal against his  
chest along with his stick. The lamb mewled in protest and fear.

"Good catch, Mulder!" one of the men called, tapping at the herd  
with his stick. The front of the group was entering the pen,  
bottlenecking through the gate. Mulder walked to the end of the clump  
of animals, keeping the line moving. Once the last of the sheep had  
entered the gate, he set the lamb down, gave its rump a pat as it  
rushed into the pen on its pink hooves.

Eric, Hosteen's other grandson, was there to close the gate, and  
smiled up at Mulder.

"You did that really well. You're a natural at this! The FBI is a  
waste for you!" And he laughed, slapping Mulder's back.

Mulder smiled tiredly. "Thanks," he said. "There have been people  
saying *I* was actually a waste to the FBI for years now. So I've  
never heard it put quite that way before."

Eric smiled wider as Mulder brushed off his grey t-shirt, slapping  
at the dust on his jeans.

"Come on," Eric said. "They're almost done with the vet, and then  
it's Miller Time." He winked at Mulder, and Mulder smiled at the  
joke. None of the men drank. "Miller Time" would mean a strong cup of  
coffee with whipping cream in it, if yesterday was any indication.

"Sounds good to me," Mulder said, and meant it.

They made their way across the yard toward the house, where a mobile  
vet was checking three of the pregnant mares. Victor was standing at  
the head of the horse currently being examined, looking for all the  
world like a nervous father. He nodded to Mulder as he and Eric  
approached.

"Good day at work," he said simply, and Mulder nodded, acknowledging  
the compliment.

"Thanks," he said, a little embarrassed.

Victor looked over his shoulder, nodded toward the area behind the  
house. "Looks like your friend has come to see what you're up to," he  
said, smiling.

Mulder turned toward the house, in the direction of his own house,  
and saw Bo sitting there, his mouth open on a pant, watching Mulder.  
Mulder found himself smiling a bit at the dog's proximity to the  
other men and the house he'd seemed so afraid of.

"Must be hungry," Mulder said, dismissing the significance of the  
dog's appearance.

"First time he's come over here since Larry died," Victor replied.  
"Hungry or not."

Mulder turned back to the dog, watching him.

"I'm all done here," the vet announced, pulling off a rubber glove  
that extended all the way to his upper arm. "Everything looks fine,"  
he said to Victor, who nodded, clearly relieved now. The vet, John  
Oxford (Mulder had read his name on the side of his truck), turned  
and looked at the dog, as well.

"Ah, I haven't seen Bo in a long time," he said warmly. "I'm glad to  
see he's coming back around a little bit."

"Just since our friend Tim got here," Victor said, slipping into  
Mulder's cover name easily in the presence of this outsider.

Oxford looked at the dog closely. "Looks like he's got mange or  
something from here."

"Yeah," Mulder said. "There's something on his sides. Scabs or sores  
or something."

Oxford looked at him. "You think you could get him and let me have a  
look? Since I'm out here anyway."

Mulder looked at Bo, considering. It seemed like a good idea. The  
dog was clearly suffering with whatever he had. But he wondered if  
hauling him over here would just traumatize Bo more, make him more  
skittish and make him trust Mulder less.

Still, it seemed important if the dog was sick with something. And  
Victor was right -- there was no one but him to do it. Bo didn't  
trust anyone else.

"I'll try," Mulder said, and he started slowly across the yard  
toward the dog.

He got about ten feet away and Bo cowered, going belly-down on the  
ground.

But he did something else, as well. His tail began to beat the still-  
damp ground hesitantly behind him, his eyes darting from Mulder as he  
slowed his approach.

"Hey Bo," he said gently, smiling and reaching his hand out. Bo  
stayed still as Mulder closed the distance until he stood before him.  
The dog's tail continued its hesitant shake, and Mulder reached down  
and touched his head again, just as he'd been able to do for a second  
time the night before. He stroked gently.

"That's it," he murmured. Bo lifted his head into Mulder's hand now,  
though he was still panting nervously.

Moving carefully, Mulder reached down and took hold of the dog's  
collar, gave it a tug. Bo rose, though his tail stayed wedged between  
his legs. He didn't even try to dart though. With that, Mulder leaned  
down and picked the dog up as he had done to the lamb, the scabs on  
the animal's sides rough on his forearms.

Bo was a fairly large dog, but he weighed about the same as the lamb  
had, Mulder noted with chagrin.

The dog was tense in his grasp, but allowed himself to be carried  
over to the vet. Victor and Eric had led the mares over to the  
corral, leaving Oxford there by himself. Mulder was glad that the  
other two men had withdrawn, because the dog was nervous enough with  
just the vet there.

"Hey there, Bo," Oxford said, and stroked his back. Mulder didn't  
move to put him down, knowing he would run. He also felt strangely  
possessive and protective of the animal, which surprised him.

Oxford began checking the patches of scabs on the dog's sides, the  
areas missing hair. "Yeah, he's got mange," he said. "Sarcoptic from  
the look of it. That's what those scabs are. Him biting at himself to  
relieve the itch."

Mulder nodded, not knowing what to say to that. He had never had a  
dog, and had no concept of the implications of what the vet was  
talking about.

Oxford went over and began rooting around in his truck. He drew out  
several vials of medication and a few syringes from the containers in  
the back of the pickup. He came forward again, drawing the medication  
into the syringes.

"I'm going to go ahead and give him his shots," the vet said, and  
scruffed what little skin he could from the dog's neck, jamming the  
needle home. Bo whimpered, and Mulder instinctively squeezed him  
tighter.

"This is an antibiotic for the infection, and a steroid called  
Ivermectin to kill the mites causing it. It'll also keep the itching  
down." The vet drew and injected two more shots into the dog. On the  
second shot, Bo began to struggle in Mulder's arms, who held him  
fast.

"You might as well let him down," Oxford said. "I'm done with him."

Mulder leaned down and let Bo down on the ground, and the dog loped  
away toward Mulder's own place. Mulder was relieved when he didn't  
disappear into the desert beyond it, but rather stopped next to the  
porch and sat again.

"What do I owe you?" Mulder asked, returning his attention to  
Oxford. "I've got my wallet in the house and --"

"You don't owe me anything," the vet said kindly. "I'm just glad  
he's coming around. He was a good dog for Larry. I'm glad to help him  
out."

Mulder smiled, strangely pleased. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Oxford smiled, reached out and shook Mulder's hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrett," he said. "I'll be back in a couple  
of weeks to check the mares and I'll check Bo again then, give him  
another dose."

If I'm still here, Mulder thought, but outwardly he nodded. "All  
right," he said, and said goodbye, heading toward Victor's house now,  
where the men were all gathered on the porch.

He stood still for a moment, feeling something lighter in him now as  
he listened to the men talking back and forth.

He couldn't help it. As always happened when his mind was calmer,  
his thoughts turned to Scully, an image of her smiling at him, curled  
in his bed on her side as he came forward carrying coffee. The  
comforter was pulled up to her chin, but the light caught on the  
creamy expanse of her bare back, almost seeming to make her glow in  
the morning sun through the window...

Around him, the light was beginning to enter the gloaming of early  
dusk, and he smiled at the memory. Then he went toward the men at the  
house, toward the sound of their loud voices and their persistent,  
welcome laughter.

 

**********

BESIDE DEAD MAN'S WASH  
6:34 p.m.

 

Scully awoke to two sensations.

The first was a chill that seemed to go straight into her bones,  
most of her still damp from being caught in the rain. There was a  
slight wind on her, and it raised her skin to gooseflesh, sending her  
into a shiver.

The second was a gentle nudging against her belly.

She opened her eyes onto the sapphire of night falling, a thick blue  
darkness surrounding her. But she could still make out a set of pale  
hooves in front of her, and looked down slightly as Ghost nudged her  
belly once again with his long nose, nearly pushing her over onto her  
back from her side.

She was curled like a question mark on the packed ground in the  
center of the clearing, the sky and its dusting of the night's  
newborn stars stretched out above her.

She reached down and touched the horse's nose, cupping it gently. He  
rooted around, blew a breath into her palm as he sniffed for  
something to eat.

"You hungry?" she said softly, groggy, and then pushed herself into  
a sitting position, the heavy poncho still gathered around her. She  
reached down and pulled it off over her head, leaving it in a heap.  
The long-sleeved shirt she wore was nothing against the chilly wind,  
and it was enough to wake her completely and move her to her feet.

She'd been asleep for a long time, she realized.

She remembered lying down after some time of crying in the rain,  
feeling tiny there on the cliffside beneath the storm. She hadn't  
even tried to cover her face as exhaustion had overtaken her -- the  
exhaustion of the hours of riding and from the weight of the emotions  
that had crashed into her with her arrival at the clearing.

She brushed dirt off her face, her damp hair, her jeans. Then she  
turned her attention to Ghost, still standing and watching her  
expectantly. For a moment, she felt the fear over having left him  
untethered, realized she could have been left here with no supplies  
as the horse wandered off, probably back toward home.

But not this horse, she thought, and smiled faintly as she brushed  
at his neck, smoothing down his silver mane.

"Let's get you something to eat," she said, and she began to unload  
the things from his back -- the nylon sack, the tent, the sleeping  
bag, both of which had been covered by the bag and were still fairly  
dry. Then she pulled down the sack of oats and fixed Ghost's feedbag  
again, slipping it over his head.

She led him to the mesquite, tying the reins to a branch that  
extended far back from the edge. She removed the saddle and pad and  
dropped the heavy leather and blanket onto the ground beside the  
horse as he began to eat.

Then she looked around at the clearing, at the fire pit with its  
halo of damp wood.

A fire first, she thought. She would need the heat. The light.

 

When Scully was a child, a nun had told her that if she stared long  
enough into a fire she would see the Devil's face looking back at  
her. The thought had terrified her at that age, and even at  
Christmas, her mother popping corn in the fireplace with her sister  
Melissa beside her, she had always averted her eyes from the flames,  
afraid of what might be looking back at her.

That had been when the Devil had seemed something not of this earth,  
an entity that lived solely in the fires in the ground beneath her,  
some realm that didn't quite touch her. It was a place that the right  
amount of prayer and penitence could hold at bay, those two things  
keeping her as safe and as warm as she'd felt in her bed when she was  
young, her mother having tucked her and Melissa in for the night, her  
father home from the sea.

As she'd grown older, she had seen that this belief was false. That  
evil could be found anywhere, in any form. Medical school and her  
time in the morgues -- with bodies ripped apart in rages of violence  
and misfortune -- had taught her these things first, hard lessons for  
someone whose beliefs were as sheltered as hers has been. It was not  
that she had been naive exactly -- she knew that evil existed around  
her. It was that she believed it could not touch her in that way,  
that there were no flames for her to stare into that would enable  
those red eyes to find her and stare back.

But her life since then had shown her otherwise. Her work with  
Mulder on the X-Files had taught her about fire, about what could  
look back. She'd seen more of the evil that existed in the world  
through her dealings with that than she ever thought imaginable, felt  
the loss and anguish it left in its wake when it punched a hole  
through that mythical place of her childhood and reached out with its  
hands of flame.

She was thinking this as she sat before the blazing fire in the  
clearing, the chemically treated pressed wood Hosteen had given her  
drying the wood enough to set it aflame. Once it had started, she'd  
put on branch after branch, making the fire climb higher into the  
night, leaving her in a circle of orange, flickering light.

She sat cross-legged, her spine straight, her hands resting on her  
knees, utterly still. And her eyes were on the fire, not wavering  
from it, not looking away, daring whatever lived inside it to come to  
her there in the quiet.

She'd resigned herself to her surroundings for the night, to  
Hosteen's trick of leading her to this place more barren than the  
place she'd left, and as devoid of answers. She didn't know what  
she'd expected to find here, if she was really honest with herself.  
There was nothing that could repair what had been done to her, no one  
to repair it. What had happened to her simply was.

Maybe that was what he had tried to show her by sending her here.  
That there was nothing to help her after all. That she would have to  
simply go on living with the charring and scars of what had happened  
to her, and it was time she resigned herself to that, as bleak as  
that was to contemplate.

She sighed, her brow creasing at the thought.

Surely Hosteen, who had been so gentle with her to this point, would  
not teach a lesson that harsh like this? Reinforcing her aloneness  
with the solitude of this place?

She turned the thought over in her mind, weighing it and discarding  
it, weighing it again. And as she did that, her eyes on the fire, her  
mind began its own journey, as long and as barren as the one she'd  
been on for the past days.

A drill coming toward her face, her body immobilized on a table, a  
world washed in white and smelling of bottled air. Faces above her  
wearing masks, Penny Northern's dry hand in hers, soothing her as her  
abdomen bloated with a obscene imitation of new life that the  
experiment also ensured would never be possible for her again.

Then at her mother's house, going through a box of Melissa's things  
after her death. She was still aching from the hour she'd spent  
sitting by the empty hospital bed, too late to see her sister before  
her death from a bullet meant for her. Only Mulder joining her had  
softened the brittle grief that had threatened to shatter her there,  
his arms around her.

In the box, she'd found a braid of Melissa's hair, cut off from a  
long strand when her sister had taken her hair from flowing down her  
back to her shoulders in high school. Her mother had saved the braid  
in a box, the yellow ribbon that secured it still in place, knotted  
at the end. She remembered putting it to her face and inhaling  
Melissa's scent from it, faint, like perfume and dust.

But even then, the tears would not come.

The sound of machinary around her, the bob of a red light breaking a  
line, her heartbeat filling the room. Her skin like paper, and pain  
beneath her eye, the tumor growing, pushing against its confines,  
taking her.

She would lie awake in the hospital when her mother, when Mulder,  
had gone home, and watch the streetlights flood in the window, a  
puzzle of light and dark. Death with its leathery wings in the  
shadows, waiting. The disease given to her to strike at Mulder, her  
body -- her life -- a pawn in a game she'd never agreed to play.

Then the small body beside her, a furnace of fever. Emily's still  
form, her hair pressed around her face with sweat, her body dying  
beneath Scully's hands, and her helpless to stop it. The glint of the  
cross as she held it above the casket, dangling light on the chain.  
Her fist had closed around it. Mulder's hand reaching out and closing  
over her fist, the other tipping the lid of the snow white coffin  
closed.

The rose dropping down into the car between she and Mulder, Mulder  
dying beside her, pink froth of blood on his face, Emily's knowing  
smile as Scully looked up at her, terrified.

Snow falling in her room in Richmond, blue flakes like blue stars,  
her hands catching them as Owen's drug took hold, sending her out  
into the night and into her nightmares...

Then she remembered the final vision she'd had as the drug had  
finally left her, in the cabin in Tennessee, Mulder holding her  
tightly in his arms. The fire coming in off the lake toward the  
island she stood on, the doe consumed by it, the wall approaching and  
faces living within it.

Fagan's face.

The floor beneath her head. His face against her shoulder. Rasp of  
breath.

She remembered it now, the figure made of flame. She stared at it in  
her memory, looking into the fire in front of her...

The red eyes stared back, seering her, trying to turn her to ash.

The scream crawled up her throat as the tears burst from her eyes.  
The sound tore from her into the night, Ghost shying from it, tossing  
his head in distress at the far edge of the fire's light.

Her hands clamped down on the sides of her head as the sound  
continued from her, mixed with unintelligible sounds like words, but  
not words.

There was no language in the country she had been brought to.

The sound spread out around her, echoing off the stones and  
darkness. Above her, the stars watched in their silences, their eyes  
wide and white and seeping light.

 

**********

END OF CHAPTER 15b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 16.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 16a.

********

 

PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO  
APRIL 6  
3:35 a.m.

 

When Mae was a very little girl, she had felt safe in her father's  
arms.

He would hold her on his lap at the old wooden table in the kitchen,  
holding her like a baby, even though she was five or six years old,  
the rich smells of her mother's cooking surrounding them both, the  
clatter of pot lids, wooden spoons on the sides of heavy pots. And he  
would tell her stories while she gazed up into his face, her thick  
curly hair trailing over his arm.

If she concentrated very hard, she could remember the laughter the  
stories would bring from her, each part of the story that was  
intended to make her giggle punctuated with a tickle to her  
midsection. Then he would bury his face at her throat, hugging her  
almost too tightly as she laughed, and he would laugh right along  
with her.

She didn't know why she was thinking about that now, lying naked in  
Joe's arms, her face pressed beneath his chin, both of them still  
breathing heavy, his breath fanning her hair as his hands smoothed  
down her slick back.

Perhaps this was the first time she'd felt truly safe since those  
days. Before her father's arrest and imprisonment. Before her life  
for the Cause began, a life with an enemy on every corner, possibly  
lurking behind every face.

She'd had lovers in the years since then, but none of them had ever  
felt this way, this protected. It was as if when she was in Joe's  
arms, the rest of the world couldn't touch her, the demons of her  
past swept away.

Joe leaned back and kissed her forehead, lingering there. His hands  
continued their slow stroke along her back.

"Was that all right?" he asked, just above a whisper.

She smiled against his skin, nodded. "More than all right," she said.

"I didn't...hurt you or anything?" He kissed her forehead again,  
just brushing her with his lips.

She shook her head. "I'm only pregnant, Joe," she replied, her tone  
teasing but still quiet. "You're not going to break me, you know."

She felt him smile, a soft chuff coming from him. "I'm sorry," he  
murmured. "It's just...well, it's new to me. I'm not sure what's the  
same and what's different, that's all."

She leaned back slightly, looked into his eyes, her hand coming up  
to push his hair from his forehead. "It's all the same," she said  
gently.

He looked at her for a beat, then nodded, kissed her softly on the  
mouth, then her cheek. She put her arms around his neck and pulled  
him closer, holding him tightly.

She hoped he could feel from her the words she couldn't bring  
herself to say. Though she felt them. Completely.

On the bedside table, the small travel alarm began to chirp, and Mae  
released him reluctantly so he could roll away from her and turn it  
off. Her hand smoothed down the sweat on his flat stomach, the covers  
slipping to his hips.

He turned back to her, leaned up on one elbow, pushed her hair  
behind her ear, his eyes on her, his brow creased. She could see the  
look on his face that she'd seen every morning since the day in the  
hospital.

He hated leaving her now. Even to go to work.

"Go on then," she said, the teasing back in her voice to break the  
intensity of his gaze. "Off with you, or the boat'll go without you."

He hesitated, despite her playfulness. "I hate thinking of you back  
here by yourself with Sean if you get so sick again," he replied. "I  
could take the day off and stay with you."

She shook her head. "No, I don't want that," she said, and reached  
up to take his hand and hold it in front of her, putting some  
distance between them that way. "I'll be fine for the few hours  
you're gone. Not to worry. I'll probably sleep the whole time."

He still looked uncertain, but he finally nodded. "All right," he  
said, and brought her hand to his lips, kissed it. "I'm just going to  
take a quick shower. Go to sleep. I'll try not to wake you while I'm  
getting dressed."

She nodded, smiled at him. "Go on then," she repeated, and he let go  
of her hand and rose. He slipped into his boxers beside the bed in  
case Sean should be up and about, then picked up his jeans and tossed  
them over his shoulder. He padded almost silently to the bedroom door  
and out into the hall.

The night air coming through the open window chilled the sweat on  
her skin almost instantly with his absence. Still on her side, she  
pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She heard the  
shower come on, and began to drift in the hazy place between sleep  
and wakefulness.

Her hand moved down to her belly beneath the covers, touching just  
below her navel. As she did so often now, she thought of her baby. In  
her mind the baby was a little girl, dark hair like hers and with  
Joe's kind, bright eyes. She pictured Joe with her on his lap in a  
warm kitchen, her child laughing in his arms, as well.

This baby's life would end up differently, she vowed. It would not  
be touched by the things Mae herself had been, would not lead the  
life she had.

All of it would stop with her, like a disease she refused to allow  
to be passed down another generation. She had the same hope for Sean  
now that he was away from Owen's life. Perhaps it wasn't too late for  
him, either...

She hummed softly on an exhale, feeling sleep begin to take her, a  
pleasant weight on her body. Sounds were muffled around her. The  
shower going off. The door opening softly, footsteps in the room...

She pushed it all away, going toward the gentle darkness...

A hand clamped down over her mouth.

She was jolted into consciousness, a sound like a scream coming up  
from her throat as her eyes shot open.

The silencer that pressed into her temple stopped the scream  
instantly, leaving only the sound of her breathing, fast and  
panicked.

"Hello, Mae," Owen Curran said from right beside her ear, his voice  
coming through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, but I  
had to wait for you to *finish.*"

He hissed the last word, jerking her head back sharply. She  
whimpered, closing her eyes, feeling tears stinging them.

"Some things never change I see," he continued, his breath hot on  
her ear. "You still can't keep your bloody legs closed, can you?"

She clenched her eyes closed more tightly and a tear slipped from  
them, over the bridge of her nose.

The baby was her first thought. Sean, she knew he wouldn't hurt. But--

Oh God. Joe.

"Now I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth, all right?"  
Owen said as though he was speaking to a five year old. "And when I  
do, you're not going to make a sound or I'm going to blow your  
fucking brains all over this bed."

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. "And don't think I won't do  
it. You understand me?"

She whimpered again, but managed to jerk a nod against the force of  
his hand. He paused for a moment, and she opened her eyes to see him  
leaning over her, looking into her face, his face awash in shadow.  
Then he slowly withdrew his hand and stood.

She didn't move. Her body began to tremble all over.

"Sit up," he snapped. "And for fuck's sake keep yourself covered."

She complied, easing her legs over the side of the bed, keeping the  
blanket up at her throat. She stared at the pistol in his hand,  
pointed at her forehead. Then she looked into his face.

His ice blue eyes stared back at her in the streetlight coming  
through the window. His face was thinner than it had been the last  
time she'd seen him, more chiseled. Fury rose off him like steam.

Their gazes hung as she pleaded with him with her eyes. He answered  
her with his silence and the stillness of the gun pointed at her  
head.

A commotion from the hallway brought her attention away from his  
face to the door, and she saw Joe come in, his jeans on, barefooted,  
his hands on top of his dripping head. A man was behind him, a tall  
solid man wearing a sports jacket and dress pants. He had a gun  
pointed at Joe's back.

Owen turned and regarded Joe coldly, looking him up and down. Then  
he pulled back the hammer on the pistol, turned and pointed it at  
Joe, whose eyes were large as dinner plates, his bare chest rising  
and falling quickly.

"Please...please don't hurt him," Mae said, and her voice shook  
almost to the point of being unintelligible.

"Look, whatever you want," Joe said, and Mae loved him for his  
composure, "you can have. I've got some money in my wallet and--"

"Shut the fuck up," Owen snarled at him, then he spun on Mae. "And  
YOU, I told you not to make a sound, didn't I?"

His hand shot out, his palm catching Mae across the jaw and jerking  
her face to the side.

"For Christ's sake!" Joe said, anguished, the man behind him's hand  
going out to his shoulder, halting his forward motion. "Don't hit  
her! She's pregnant!"

Oh God, Joe, Mae thought as blood trickled from her lip. Don't have  
just told him that...

Suddenly Owen had a handful of her hair, his face in hers. "You're  
*what?* You're fucking WHAT?" Then he released her hair and hit her  
again.

This time Joe did come forward, cursing, his hands going off his  
head and reaching for Owen's throat. Owen spun on him, the gun coming  
up and pressing against Joe's forehead, stopping him. Then the man  
behind Joe pulled him back again, holding him still. Owen had yet to  
move the gun, though, following Joe back.

"Please don't hit her any more," Joe said softly, keeping his voice  
steady.

"So you're the sonofabitch who knocked up my sister then," Owen  
said, cocking his head at Joe, his eyes narrowing. He turned the gun  
sideways, as well, and Joe stiffened even more. "I'd be more worried  
about myself if I were you."

Owen's hand moved so fast it was like a blur of motion. He struck  
Joe across the face with the butt of the gun, and his knee came up  
into Joe's groin, sending him crashing to his knees, a hoarse cough  
coming from him. One of Joe's hands went to his belly, the other to  
his face.

Mae could see blood dripping from between his fingers. She began to  
cry in earnest now, frustrated tears of fear and helplessness.

More sounds from the hallway, and now Sean came in, another man  
behind him. The man didn't have a gun out on Sean, and she was glad  
for that. He did have a hand firmly on Sean's shoulder, though, as  
though to ensure he wouldn't run.

Sean gazed at Owen for a few seconds, his expression very afraid.  
Then he looked at Mae and Joe. Mae swiped at the blood on her mouth  
so he wouldn't see it, but it was too late. She could tell by how the  
boy's eyes had widened even more and how his breathing had begun to  
come fast and shallow. Then Sean returned his eyes to Joe, who was  
still hunched over, blood seeping from his cheek.

"Joe?" Sean said in a high, frightened voice.

"I'm all right, Sean," Joe managed, but it sounded like even words  
hurt him.

Mae's eyes darted to Owen, whose face had twisted up in even more  
rage. "You can't say hello to your own dad first, Sean?" he said, his  
teeth clenched again.

Sean looked up, backed a step into the odd-looking man behind him.  
"Hello, Daddy," he said, his voice faint and terrified and his lip  
trembling. His eyes brimmed with tears.

Owen looked at him, and Mae could see the pain in his face from  
Sean's reaction. Then Owen turned his attention back to Joe, pure  
hatred in his eyes, and he kicked out again, pushing Joe onto his  
side roughly. Joe lay there, still holding his abdomen. Mae saw the  
huge gash in his face as he moved his other hand down to his belly,  
as well.

"Owen, please...not in front of Sean, all right?" Mae said meekly.

Owen glared at her, his hand going up to rub roughly at the scar  
down his face, which he always did when he was agitated. Then he  
seemed to relent a bit, to regain some measure of composure, though  
Mae recognized it for the front it was.

"Rudy, take Sean to his room and get him to pack up his things," he  
said calmly, and the strange-looking man nodded, angled Sean toward  
the door and guided him out. That done, Owen turned to Mae.

"Now get up and get dressed," he said. "We're going for a little  
ride, all of us."

"Let Joe go," she begged. "He doesn't have any part of this. This is  
between you and me."

Owen seemed to consider for a few seconds, looking down at Joe, who  
was watching him warily.

"No," Owen said finally, almost conversationally. Mae found this  
tone more chilling than the rage he'd spoken with before. "No, I  
think Joe here will be coming with us, as well."

Mae sucked in a breath. "But why?"

Owen stared at her again, a faint smile on his face. "Because you  
want me to let him go," he said. "And plus, he's *family* now, isn't  
he? We should all stay together, don't you think?"

He kicked Joe again, this time in the side. "Now get the fuck up and  
find a shirt and some shoes," he snarled.

Joe struggled into a sitting position, stood slowly, Owen's gun on  
him the whole time.

"All right," he said quietly, putting his hands up in a placating  
gesture. "I'm not going to try anything."

"That's good," Owen said. "Because the minute you try something, I  
shoot *her.*" He jerked his head toward Mae. "And the minute you do,  
I shoot *him.*"

Mae swallowed, gauging Owen, tears still running down her face.

He was serious, she thought. He would do it.

She nodded to him then and stood, bringing the covers with her. She  
wrapped herself in them as she went to the bureau, her back to the  
men in the room, and silently began to dress.

 

*********

 

NEAR DEAD MAN'S WASH  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
5:34 a.m.

 

The fire had long since gone to embers. Scully had sat in the  
darkness the fire left behind for more than an hour before the sun  
began to paint the horizon with a line of gold, high nimbus clouds  
lighting up amidst the persistent starlight.

She hadn't slept the whole night, watching Orion spin slowly across  
the sky, her mind filled. She'd cried off and on, wrenched by her  
feelings for the first time in years, bringing them out and casting  
off their shadows in the light of the stars and fire.

Somewhere around the time the fire had died, a calmness had settled  
over her and the tears had ceased, leaving her still and silent, her  
knees pulled up against her chest, the bunting top she wore pulled  
out over them. She felt utterly spent, as though something in her  
that had been impossibly heavy and full was now empty.

Years of anguish she'd kept closed within her, anguish for herself,  
now finally open, like a black flower that had finally bloomed,  
showing her its terrible beauty and then withering away.

She watched the sun come up, a half an eye at the edge of the world.  
The sky turned pink, the red rocks glowing in it, a light wind  
rustling the brush around the edge of the clearing, ruffling the  
stiff dry leaves of the mesquite. Behind her, the thin river surged  
with light.

She glanced at Ghost, asleep, one hock turned up in the sand, and  
thought again of Hosteen, replaying his words in the kitchen, the  
room simmering with the smell of things cooking:

It's time for you to go to this place, he'd said.

That is where you will find everything you need.

It's not on the map, what's there. But you will see it.

She looked around her, looking for it. The world was birthing this  
new day, slowly lighting the desert, chasing away the chill. There  
was a strength to it, a vastness. And it was as though, for the first  
time in months, she looked around and saw things not as they were but  
how they could be.

As new. Like a child. So full of possibilities.

A silver thread unwound in her. A faith she thought she had lost.  
Faith in herself. In the simple yet inexplicable ways of things.

Again her thoughts returned to Hosteen in his cluttered kitchen,  
stirring with his worn wooden spoon.

What was it he'd said about faith? He'd said her faith would be  
welcomed by whomever she found in this place.

But there was no one here, she thought.

Then a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

*She* was here. And she did welcome it.

She was here. And she did have everything she needed to find her  
answers, and always had. Within herself.

She shook her head, the smile blooming as she wiped at her tired  
eyes. Her estimation of Hosteen, already very high, went up another  
few notches.

He couldn't have told her any of this. He knew she had to find it  
out on her own, in her own time. It was a journey she had had to make  
alone to reach the end of it, to the place she now walked inside  
herself.

To this quiet land that offered her, at last, some sense of peace.

She stood, walked to the edge of the cliff, watching the river run  
slowly along its wide banks. Ghost awoke at the movement and turned  
his head to regard her with his plum eyes.

The thoughts of Mulder, which she'd tried for so long to keep  
buried, came to the surface in a warm rush. She wished he could be  
here to share this feeling with her. She wanted more than anything to  
share it with him, to feel his arms around her as she watched the sun  
climb, an eye of light wide open now, the stars retreating to  
pinpoints and then to nothing at all.

She would share this with him. She would give him this, offer it up  
to him to try to make right what she had -- by necessity -- torn  
apart between them. She wanted him to feel as whole as she did at  
that moment.

Whole except for one thing.

Him.

Her eyes stung again, but this time she was smiling as the warm  
feeling spread in her like water. The smile came easily, her eyes  
closing and a breath leaving her in a long, slow exhale.

Finally she opened her eyes, turned and went to the fire pit,  
kicking sand into the embers, covering them until they finally faded  
out. She hadn't even bothered to set up the tent the night before,  
the sleeping bag still rolled up beside it.

She ate quickly, a muffin, a swallow of water from the canteen she  
carried with her.

Then she saddled Ghost, loaded up her supplies and mounted him,  
heading back down the rise on the trail that would lead her home.

 

*********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
7:28 a.m.

 

Mulder pressed his heels into the horse's sides, urging it a bit as  
they headed toward a small hill on the outskirts of Victor Hosteen's  
property, the sun just beginning to glare on him, though he welcomed  
the way it warmed his skin.

The horse, an even-tempered black mare named Chaco, took the hill in  
stride, Mulder's grip on the reins reasonably sure but his pressure  
on her mouth minimal, just as Victor (and Killer) had taught him.

At the top of the rise, he stopped her, but not to enjoy the view,  
though it was a nice one.

He stopped because Bo had fallen behind again, the dog picking his  
way along the trail, weaving in and out of bushes, panting, his head  
down as he followed Mulder out into the desert.

Once Bo had gotten to the top of the hill, as well, Mulder touched  
his heels to Chaco's sides again and they went down the other side.  
He leaned back in the saddle, bracing his feet in the stirrups, just  
as he'd been taught, until they reached the bottom and continued on  
down the trail.

He'd been lost in his own thoughts all morning, his mind wandering  
as he'd helped Victor and Eric and the others with the sheep and  
horses. Finally, after Victor had caught him staring off into space  
once again when he was supposed to be doing something else, Victor  
had told him to take a horse and "get lost" for awhile until he could  
get his mind back on his work.

The friendly swat on the back he'd given Mulder as he urged him  
toward the corral had taken any hint of reprimand out of the comment,  
and Mulder had smiled to him as he went to saddle the horse.

His hips had gotten used to the easy roll of the horse's long gait,  
and he'd learned to handle the horse halfway decently, though the  
activity still plagued him with nervousness, his side aching as a  
reminder of what could happen if he did the wrong thing again.

But he was at least beginning to understand why people enjoyed this,  
though a few days ago he couldn't fathom feeling this way. He felt  
very authentic in his worn jeans and his boots, the grey t-shirt he  
wore not quite warm enough for the morning, but comfortable  
nonetheless.

He looked around at the landscape, finding solace in the simplicity  
of it, its clarity. Things were very cut and dried out here. There  
were no shades of gray to confuse him, no middle ground. He liked  
that a lot, and was beginning to align his feelings with the  
starkness of his surroundings, and with the barren terrain of his own  
heart.

Maybe being alone wasn't such a bad thing, he thought, urging Chaco  
up another small incline, keeping a watchful eye on Bo.

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying to himself again, and  
the contradiction of that sentiment and the worry and hurt he felt  
over Scully made him feel lost again.

Maybe Scully had been right when she'd told him that he loved her  
too much, he thought sadly. That he was blinded by that love. Because  
somewhere along the way he seemed to have misplaced something  
important.

Himself.

And he was just now getting himself back, getting to know how he  
looked and felt without her again.

He didn't know if it was a better or worse version of himself he was  
looking at or not. It was just different. Solitary, like his life had  
been before her. Familiar in that way and thus somehow comforting.  
And he had to admit, begrudgingly, he liked that only he could alter  
things about him now. He felt more in control than he had in a long  
time, less accountable.

He found an painful kind of peace in all of this, he realized, as  
Chaco went around a bend, Bo padding along beside him.

It was the feeling people settled on in grief, when they faced the  
hard realization that they were going to have to rise every morning  
and go about their lives without the person they'd lost, even though  
they might be dying inside themselves.

He'd come to this difficult conclusion. That his life would go on,  
even without her in it, if that was what she continued to choose for  
him. He couldn't fight her in this, though there was still a part of  
him that wanted to. Badly. And in his pain he'd somehow become  
resigned to this new life, though his memory of the one he'd had with  
her, his love for her, still throbbed in him like the phantom of a  
limb taken away.

He would bear that pain and go on, he told himself harshly, his eyes  
flinty as he watched the trail ahead of him.

Even if it meant turning in on himself, pulling in like an animal  
going into its shell.

He could feel himself hardening inside even as he thought of it all,  
and the feeling dulled the pain.

Beside him, Bo whined and sat down on the trail, panting heavily.  
Mulder pulled up the horse, looked down at him. The dog was tiring,  
he could tell, though he hadn't exactly invited Bo along for this  
ride in the first place.

"You ready to head back, Bo?" he called down, and the dog looked up  
at him, his long pink tongue wagging out of his mouth as his tail  
thumped the ground, still a bit uncertainly. Bo whined again softly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Mulder said, and smiled slightly, then  
turned the horse around awkwardly and headed back towards Victor's  
house, barely visible in the distance.

 

*************

 

END OF CHAPTER 16a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 16b.

 

********

 

2679 RANDOLPH AVENUE  
CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA  
APRIL 7  
9:14 a.m.

 

Nancy Rand looked carefully at the picture of Mulder Skinner had  
handed her, her other hand at her waist, toying with the black belt  
she wore knotted there around her karate uniform, or gi. She was  
shaking her head but had yet to speak, which Skinner was taking as a  
promising sign.

Around him, the karate class continued without her, another black  
belt having taken over when he arrived to question her. Around him,  
students went through drills, some off to the sides practicing forms,  
other sparring wearing helmets and pads on their feet and hands.

He'd come in casual clothes so as not to draw too much attention to  
himself, trying to blend in with the students of various ages  
peppered throughout the room. He could be a prospective student  
himself, just in the dojo to sign up for classes. That was exactly  
the way he'd wanted to look.

He noticed, though, that he was still getting some odd, territorial  
looks from the people around him. Clearly they weren't used to new  
people coming in very often. It made him shift uncomfortably as he  
waited for Rand's verdict.

She started to hand the picture back to him, then looked at it one  
more time. Skinner's stomach tightened.

"He was waiting for a plane," she said, and now she nodded. "Yes, I  
remember him now. My last week of work. We almost called Security on  
him -- he was showing all the classic signs of someone up to  
something." She looked at Skinner as he cocked an eyebrow in  
confusion. "You know...standing around the gate with big carry-ons  
and not boarding right away, watching everyone who got on the plane.  
He looked really anxious about something."

"But you didn't call Security?" Skinner asked. He almost hoped she  
had -- more witnesses. But she shook her head.

"No, I went up to him right before we were about to close the doors  
and asked him if he was getting on, and he said he wasn't. Picked up  
the bags and left. We were all really relieved when he left."

She handed the picture back now, her hands going to her trim hips  
beneath the thick black fabric of the gi. She looked eager to get  
back to what she was doing, restless.

Skinner nodded, finally breathing normally again. It all jived.  
Mulder with his things packed up waiting for Scully to board the  
plane bound for Boston, for her to get clear of her cover. It was an  
escape route she never got to take.

Behind him, a woman was breaking boards held by other students, the  
cracking startling him back into the present.

He cleared his throat. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your  
attention to this, Ms. Rand," he said, tucking the picture back in  
his pocket. He pulled out a small notepad and a pen, proffering them  
to her. "I wonder if you might take the time to write down everything  
you just told me, for my records."

Rand pushed her blonde hair back from her face where it had fallen a  
bit from a loose French braid in the back. "What's he wanted for,  
anyway?" she asked, though she took the pen and pad. "*Should* we  
have called Security?"

Skinner shook his head. "No, no. You did the right thing. I'm afraid  
I'm not at liberty to say what the investigation is about, though."  
He looked at her, forced a small smile. "But you've been a huge  
help."

She shrugged, smiling shyly. "No problem," she said, and went to the  
counter at the front of the dojo to write down what she'd seen,  
Skinner following behind her.

 

Thirty minutes later, Skinner was back in traffic, his suit swinging  
on its hanger in the back seat as he wove his way through the mass of  
cars heading into the city.

He hated that it was too late now to call Granger without getting  
him at the CIA, which they'd decided was a bad idea.

But they had proof now. Facts that disproved the two most damning  
pieces of Padden's circumstantial evidence against Mulder. Between  
that and Scully's testimony about what really happened in Mae  
Curran's apartment (which he could take down over the phone from her  
for now), they should be able to put enough doubt into these charges  
to put footprints on Padden's head and go to Ashcroft. Then he and  
Granger would put this thing to rest and get Mulder and Scully in --  
and Scully into his OWN Protective Custody -- as soon as he could.

Something in him unwound a bit as he drove back toward the city, as  
he felt some kind of control over this for the first time.

But he didn't let it go all the way.

After all, this was Mulder, he reminded himself.

And that meant nothing was as easy as it might seem.

 

*********

LAKE OAHE  
NEAR FAITH, SOUTH DAKOTA  
2:25 p.m.

 

Jimmy Shea remembered the pub, the dark corner made of dark wood,  
smoke from three or four pipes catching in the bowl of the light  
above the table like aromatic webs. The faces around the circle of  
light were grim, the pints in front of the men all, for the most  
part, untouched.

"What the bloody hell are we going to do about this then?" Pauly  
Connell said, tapping his tobacco out into the large tray at the  
table's center. He immediately reached into his pocket and loaded the  
thing again, pressing it down with his thumb over and over, worrying  
over it.

"I don't know what can be done," Shea replied, his own pipe in his  
mouth. It made him feel older than his 36 years in the crowd of older  
men. "You all know James Curran as well as I do. He *will* keep this  
hunger strike up. He'll starve himself to death without even thinking  
about it if it'll draw attention to the work."

"Aye, that's so," Seamus agreed, nodding sagely. Shea watched him  
carefully, looking to him for some sort of solution, since the man  
was a Brigade Leader and could do something if anyone could.

"And no chance of getting him out of there?" Paddy -- young and  
stupid -- asked, and everyone shook their heads.

"That would be daft," Pauly said.

Seamus leaned forward, deep in thought. "We need to do something to  
show that we're with him, though. We'll make them pay for how he's  
paying." He turned to the other men. "I say a strike at the bastards  
in every county. At the police. The ones who brought him in in the  
first place."

There were general nods of agreement around the table, though Shea  
was, himself, a bit shocked at the notion. An operation of that scale  
would take every man they had. And probably a few they didn't.

"You sure that won't just make things worse for him?" Shea offered,  
tapping out his own pipe. He said it casually, so as to appear to  
assent but just be curious.

"What more can the bastards do to him that he's not already doing to  
himself?" Paddy asked, and the other men grunted their assent. "He  
can't even lay down on his back anymore, I hear, because his bones  
cut into his skin. And he should see that we're behind him, even if  
this comes out for the worst." The men grunted again.

"All right," Shea said, nodding now.

Seamus looked around the table. "I'll get with the other Brigade  
Leaders and we'll come up with a time for us to strike, ways in, then-  
-"

"How can I help then?" a small voice piped up from in front of the  
table. Everyone's eyes turned toward the sound, including Shea's. His  
eyes widened.

Owen Curran, all of ten years old but dressed like a man, stood at  
the head of the table, looking at the men solemnly. His eyes were  
cold blue, staring. His voice had been flat as the dead calm sea.

"Owen, you should be home with your mother," Paddy said gently. "And  
what are you doing standing there listening to men's talk, eh?"

"You're talking about my dad," the boy said. "What you're going to  
do about my dad."

"Go home, Owen," Seamus said softly. "This is work for men now, not  
boys."

Shea watched Owen chafe, his small chest rising and falling. "I know  
how to make things. I can listen and know things without being  
noticed because everyone thinks I'm just a boy. I can get into places  
none of you can get in. I can help you."

The table just stared for a long few seconds. They'd used children  
before for small errands, but this... Shea wanted to shake his head  
but didn't. After all, the boy was losing his father in this. There  
would be no saving James Curran now, not with the hunger strike on  
for this long and things having gone as far as they had.

Maybe it would make James' death easier on the boy if he felt like  
he was doing something about what was happening...

Shea looked to Seamus, who was looking at Owen.

"All right, Owen," Seamus said finally. "You come back around to my  
house tomorrow after you're done with school and I'll find something  
for you to do for me. How's that then?"

Owen nodded, meeting the eyes of the men around the table, unafraid.

"Yes, sir," he said softly, and he pulled on his small cap and  
turned and was gone.

 

Jimmy Shea was thinking all this as he watched the tiny trout spin  
in the sunlight from the almost invisible line, its tail curling a  
bit, its gills flooded and crisp with blood. It was still struggling  
now and again, though he had no idea how long he'd been looking at  
it, lost in his thoughts.

He'd hooked it through the eye, he realized, struck back into the  
present, and he carefully worked the hook out of the foil orb, being  
as careful as he could with the fish, which was too small to keep  
even if he'd been inclined to do so. He wasn't catching to eat today,  
the motel he'd found without a kitchen. He was just catching to  
catch.

There was a crackling as the hook popped loose and he worked it out  
the gaping mouth, holding the fish by the lip. There was a trickle of  
blood on his thumb, and he tossed the fish back into the water,  
rinsed the blood quickly in the lake as though the blood had burned  
him.

From his pocket, his cell phone began to chirp, and he dried his  
hands on his pants quickly as he reached for it, hit the talk button.

"Aye," he grunted into it.

"Mr. Shea?" came Conail Rutherford's voice, crackling with static  
from a spotty signal in the middle of the vast lake.

"Aye," Shea repeated. "What do you have for me then, Conail?"

"I've gotten a phone call," Rutherford replied. "A strange phone  
call. Someone who's been putting our friend up here and there. He  
told me where he might be going to next, if you want to catch up with  
him there."

The ambiguity had become part of their conversations. Always talking  
about friends meeting up. It made Shea sad every time Rutherford said  
it, though he knew, of course, why he did.

"All right then, where is it?" he said, still rubbing his hand  
absently on his pants.

"Alder Creek, Colorado," Rutherford replied. "Where are you now, if  
you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm in South Dakota," Shea replied, looking at the lovely blue-  
green fir trees lining the banks of the deep blue lake. "Not too far  
away. I'll just finish up an hour of fishing here and then I'll be on  
my way."

"That's fine," the younger man replied. "Take your time. It looks  
like this man who called...he's interested in the same thing we are,  
it seems. Said he'd keep in touch."

Shea nodded. "That's good then," he said quietly, distracted. "Call  
me in a few days. I'll be there. Sooner if you know anything else."

"Aye, that I'll do," Rutherford said. "Travel safe, Mr. Shea."

"Will do," he replied, and hung up, tucking the phone back in his  
pocket.

He looked out over the lake, a sudden wind rippling the lake into  
waves that turned the boat with its small hands.

He should be happier with the news, he knew. But he couldn't muster  
it. Only when he thought of Ruby, being back home with her, was he  
cheered, though just a bit.

Sighing, feeling all his sixty-plus years settling over him, he  
turned to the outboard, pulled on it roughly and it coughed to life,  
sputtering. Then he angled the boat against the wind, heading back up  
the lake.

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
5:34 p.m.

 

The path to Albert Hosteen's house was going a burnished bronze as  
the sun set over the desert, the clouds that had persisted all day  
gathering on the horizon and surrounding the last of the sunlight  
like hands.

Scully was half asleep on Ghost's back, lulled by the horse's slow  
gait as he made his way toward his home. Her head lolled forward and  
she snapped awake just as they reached the back of the house. She  
could see Hosteen looking at her through the back window, and raised  
her hand in greeting, coming more awake.

She came around the house, stopped Ghost at the front porch and  
dismounted, landing on both feet in the dust, stretching her stiff  
back.

She was pulling the reins over Ghost's head to hitch him to the  
porch post when the screen door creaked open and Hosteen came out,  
his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, a flannel shirt hanging  
on his thin frame. His long silver hair was in a ponytail at his  
neck, and there was a small, knowing smile on his face.

She finished tying the horse up and turned, regarding Hosteen and  
returning the smile.

"How was your trip, Agent Scully?" he asked, his voice quiet. She  
could hear the television mumbling to itself inside the screen door,  
and smelled fry bread cooking. It was a smell she knew she would  
forever associate with this time in her life, this man. It comforted  
her that much.

"It was good," she replied, looking down shyly. "It was very good."

"Hm," he said, nodding. "Did you find what you were looking for,  
what you needed, while you were there?"

She hesitated, felt her eyes brimming with tears suddenly, fatigue  
and the emotions of the past three days welling in her suddenly. She  
looked away, her hands on her hips as she pulled in a calming breath.  
Her head bobbed once.

"Yes," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Yes. I found what I  
needed."

Now she did look at him, into his eyes, which caught the light from  
the porch and held it like starlight.

"All but one thing," she added just above a whisper.

Hosteen walked to the edge of the porch, standing before her,  
looking down into her face. She didn't flinch from his gaze, from the  
way he studied her, smiling as though he was pleased with what he  
found. She smiled back, reached out tentatively and touched his  
forearm.

"Hm," he said again. "Well, then come in and have some dinner, have  
a shower."

He paused, and his hand reached out to cover hers on his arm.

"Then go to him."

She nodded, and now the tears did come. She closed her eyes.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice escaping her.

He only nodded in return, and, stepping back, he held the door for  
her and led her into the house.

 

**

6:48 p.m.

 

Mulder sat on one side of the ancient brown couch, the fuzzy  
reception of "The Andy Griffith Show," the only show that would come  
in, scattering the room with its flickering white. There was a lamp  
on beside him, throwing light on the 1953 National Geographic he was  
flipping through. He turned the pages slowly, looking at the pictures  
and breathing in the smell of old books and dust.

He turned to look at Bo beside him on the couch, who was sprawled on  
the other cushion, his long legs crossed as they hung over the edge.  
He was lying on a battered towel Mulder had found at the bottom of  
the linen closet, his head resting on the arm of the couch's arm. The  
dog's eyes were half-closed, his breathing slow.

Mulder reached over and touched Bo's flank, gave him a pat. Ever  
since the visit with the vet the other day, since the long walk in  
the desert with him yesterday, Bo had seemed to be under the weather,  
lethargic and not quite as interested in eating as he'd been before.

Mulder was worried about him all day, and thought there'd be no harm  
in letting him in the house since Bo had come to the door wanting in.  
Mulder had had to lift him up onto the cushion, though, when he put  
the towel down, afraid Bo's sores would stain the fabric.

Not that it mattered, he thought ruefully. The couch was already  
covered with cigarette burns, and must have been older than he was,  
or close to it. But he was still mindful of being a guest in this  
house, dilapidated as it was.

It was beginning to feel homey in its disrepair and its relative  
silence.

He kept his hand on Bo's rump as he turned the page with his other  
hand, put his ankle up on his knee as he sunk further into the  
cushion. He sighed and looked at the picture on the next page.

Ah, the naked Pygmies from his youth...

It almost teased a smile from him. Almost.

There was a knock at the door, faint. Had the sound on the  
television been up any higher, he probably wouldn't have heard it at  
all.

He glanced at his watch, wondering what Victor could want at this  
time of night, the horses all in the corral for the evening, the  
sheep in their pen. Wind creaked against the plexiglass windows,  
signalling a storm coming up.

Maybe Victor wanted help putting the horses in the stable, in case  
the storm got too bad. The lightning out here was the fiercest he'd  
ever seen.

He rose, tossed the magazine onto the couch, retucking his white t-  
shirt into his jeans in the back as he headed for the door. Bo opened  
his eyes and followed Mulder with them, though he didn't move beyond  
that, Mulder noted. Not even for the knock.

He must really be feeling badly, Mulder thought as he watched Bo,  
still going toward the door. The dog wasn't even spooked at the  
prospect of someone outside coming in.

Mulder reached the door and flung it open, thinking to ask Victor  
about Bo's state --

And was confronted by Scully standing there on the other side of the  
screen door in the yellow porchlight. The light gleamed on her still-  
wet hair, threw a gold glow on her long-sleeved shirt. She had her  
hands on her thin hips and was looking at him uncertainly, her eyes  
on his face.

His heart finally started beating again after a few seconds and he  
regained his composure from the gape he had frozen into on seeing  
her.

Now he found himself looking away. He could feel a flush rising  
beneath his beard.

"Hi." She said the word softly, sounding almost a little afraid.

"Hi," he replied, and it came out stiff. He was looking down at her  
booted feet, over her shoulder. Anywhere but her face and into those  
eyes.

There was an awkward moment of silence. A dog barked somewhere off  
in the distance. The screen door still separated them, and he made no  
move to open it.

He chanced a look at her face. She was still trying to get him to  
meet her eyes.

"Is there anything wrong?" he asked, unable to bear the silence any  
longer.

She shook her head. "No, no," she said, her voice still quiet.  
"There's nothing wrong."

"That's good," he replied hurriedly, nodding. He glanced at her face  
again, this time for a few seconds longer. "You look tired."

She smiled slightly. "I've been out...camping for a few days," she  
said. "Not the most comfortable sleeping conditions."

"Camping," he repeated, nodding again, looking down. "Good. That's  
good. Did you have fun?"

She shook her head. "No."

The word stilled him and he did look up into her face now. Her eyes  
were sad and tender and pleading all at once, and he didn't know what  
to do with any of it.

"Oh," was all he could think to say. "I'm sorry."

She shifted from one foot to the other, shaking her head. "No, don't  
be sorry," she said, and he could hear frustration seeping into her  
tone now. "I just...I was just wondering..."

She paused, and it was her turn to stare down. He watched her,  
something in him growing inexplicably afraid as she struggled for  
words.

"You were wondering what?" he asked, trying to sound casual. He  
failed.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you," she said finally, and her  
eyes met his again. He wondered if his expression gave away his  
nervousness.

She took a step closer to the door, put her hand on the screen, her  
fingers brushing against it. He saw her swallow and realized she was  
as nervous as he was.

"Can I come in, Mulder?"

He hesitated, taking a step away from the door, from her hand on the  
screen.

He tried to remember what he'd felt yesterday out in the desert, his  
resolve at having himself back, at being all right with being alone  
and unaccountable. Emotions tinged with bitterness and anger and a  
strange sort of power.

The feelings reared in him, very real, but even as they did so, he  
recognized them as the defense that they were, thrown up to cover his  
nervousness and his fear.

Fear of her. Of being hurt by her.

He didn't think he could bear it again.

It was an admission to himself that made his eyes burn with tears,  
which he blinked back. He hadn't realized he was still this raw. He'd  
felt so numb for so long now, so closed.

But here she was, opening him with her small hands again.

He almost resented how easily she could do it.

"Mulder, please," she murmured, and the pleading was in her voice  
and her eyes now. "Please let me just talk to you."

He balked for another few seconds, waiting until the emotions were  
back under some semblance of control. Then he met her eyes, nearly  
getting lost in their familiar blue, and knew there was only one  
thing he could do.

He reached for the door handle, and she stepped back as he pushed it  
open and held it for her. He could not bring himself to speak,  
however, not trusting his words or his voice.

He could see the sadness come over her face at his silence. But she  
nodded, angled her head in thanks, and walked through the doorway and  
into the living room beyond.

He stood still for a moment, his eyes down. Then he finally let go  
of the door, turned, and closed the wooden one behind him.

 

*************

 

END OF CHAPTER 16b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 17.

**********

6:58 p.m.

 

Scully stood in the space between the kitchen and the living room,  
her hands in the pockets of her jeans. Her heart was pounding and she  
drew in a deep breath, let it go, calming herself as best she could.

It's still Mulder, she reminded herself. It's just Mulder.

The thought didn't comfort her much. She didn't know anything about  
how he was, how he felt. She didn't know what he thought of her, or  
how much anger he might have at the things she had done to drive him  
away.

She wondered just how far away he'd gone in the time since the fight  
in the motel, since she'd struck him, cursed at him.

The distance was definitely there. She could feel it. It was like  
they were looking at each other from two islands, each stranded on  
their separate shores.

"Can I get you something?" Mulder asked, coming up behind her and  
then going for the kitchen. "I have some coffee that's still warm,  
fairly fresh..." He trailed off as he lifted the percolator from the  
stove, as if to prove he was telling the truth.

She didn't want coffee, but she nodded nevertheless. "Sure. Coffee  
would be nice. Thank you."

He nodded, his eyes still darting away from her as fast as  
frightened birds. It pained her to see that he could not look at her  
for more than a few seconds before he had to turn away.

She watched him for a moment as he went into the cabinet, pulling  
down a dingy looking mug, its bone-white surface battered. He poured  
the coffee, went to the fridge and took out the milk and a small bag  
of Domino sugar.

She took a small comfort in the fact that he remembered how she took  
her coffee. A ghost of their previous life.

She looked around the living room, the television's picture barely  
visible through the static, Andy playing the guitar and humming on  
the porch through the hiss. There was only one light on, a lamp by  
the couch that faced the television. There was a stack of National  
Geographics on the coffee table, Mulder's own coffee mug beside it,  
which didn't match the one he was presently filling for her.

The place was warm and dark and cave-like. Neatly kept, which  
surprised her. He rarely kept his own apartment clean. She wondered  
why he did here.

She took a step toward the back of the couch and saw legs splayed  
out from one of the cushions. Leaning over the back, she found  
herself looking into the face of a terribly thin black dog. She  
winced as she looked at the sores on its visible side, the starkness  
of its ribs.

"Hey," she murmured, and reached down to pet its head, finding it  
surprisingly soft considering the state of the rest of the dog's  
body. The dog whined faintly as she did so, nervous eyes the color of  
oil blinking up at her.

"Where'd you get the dog?" she asked, continuing to stroke the  
animal's head, smoothing back its ear.

"He sort of found me," Mulder replied, and finished stirring her  
coffee. "His name's Bo. This is his first night in the house. I don't  
think he's feeling very well."

Scully walked around the couch now, moved the coffee table back a  
little so she could get to the dog more easily. She checked him over,  
feeling his head and ears more carefully. The dog pushed further into  
the couch, turning his head away from her.

"It's okay," she said softly, and the dog whined again.

Mulder came forward from the kitchen, around the couch. He kept his  
distance from her, though, she noticed.

She pulled on the dog's neck, watched the skin slowly fall back into  
place.

"He's a little dehydrated, for starters," she said, then checked the  
sores. They seemed to be all right, most of them closed over and  
healing. "He needs a vet, though."

"He's seen one," Mulder replied, his voice still nervous. "A couple  
of days ago. He got a bunch of shots."

Scully glanced at him, then down at the dog. "That's probably all it  
is, then, if the vet didn't find anything serious," she said.  
"Sometimes they can have a reaction to the medications. Especially if  
they're already weak, and he clearly is."

"That's good to know, that it's just the shots," Mulder said as she  
stood, still regarding the dog, sprawled on his towel as though  
someone had dropped him there.

"He's got a bowl of water in the kitchen," he continued. "He's been  
drinking some. Maybe he'll be okay in the morning."

Scully nodded. "I'll check him tomorrow for you, if you'd like."

Mulder looked uncomfortable, but nodded, as well. "Okay...thanks."

Bo took one final look at her, still unmoving, then closed his eyes  
and exhaled a deep breath, falling asleep.

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other as she turned her  
attention from the dog to him. He offered her the coffee and she took  
it.

"Thanks," she said quietly. Mulder picked up his own cup, and they  
regarded each other for an awkward beat.

"So..." Mulder said, gesturing to a chair beside the couch. She  
moved toward it and sat, and he took the empty side of the couch,  
sitting on the very edge. She did the same in the chair. "What did  
you want to talk to me about?"

She looked down into the milky surface of coffee, hesitated. Her bad  
hand trembled it into ripples. Then she glanced up at him, and he was  
looking at her solemnly. He took a sip of his coffee, half his face  
lit by the lamp on the end table.

She smiled, embarrassed, and shook her head. "I don't know where to  
start," she admitted faintly, looking down.

Silence hung between them again, wind pushing on the windows,  
creaking the trailer.

"Tell me...tell me how you are," she said quietly, returning her  
gaze to his face. His expression was unreadable, as though he'd put  
on a mask.

"Me? I'm great for a guy that's been thrown off half the horses in  
Victor Hosteen's corral." He turned the coffee mug around in his  
hands, took a sip. Then he looked up at her again. "How are you  
doing?" His voice sounded far away.

She cringed inwardly. He had shut himself off from her so much. It  
hurt her to feel it, even though she knew that she was the one who  
had caused him to do it. She hated knowing that.

"I'm doing much better," she replied. "I've had a lot of time to  
think."

He nodded. "I'm glad you're doing better," he said, and some warmth  
leaked into his voice. He cleared his throat. "I've been...worried  
about you. You know, wondering how you were."

"I've been worried about you, too," she replied earnestly, sensing a  
tiny space in his considerable armor.

"I'm fine," he said flatly, sipping his coffee again. He said it  
with a note of finality, as though he didn't want to talk about it  
anymore. It verged on defensive.

"Mulder, I'm..." Emotion rose in her and she struggled to stifle it.  
"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. For what I did and said before.  
I was just--"

"You don't need to apologize," he interrupted. "I understand."

Again, that firm tone. Almost dismissive.

"No, I *do* need to apologize," she persisted, treading carefully.  
"I should never have treated you like that. Not given how much I--"

"It's okay, Scully," he interrupted again, and stood now, going into  
the kitchen.

She watched him go, feeling tears climbing behind her eyes. She  
pushed them down.

He poured some more coffee from the pot, draining it. He set it down  
a little too hard on the burner, making a loud clap of metal on  
metal. He stayed beside the kitchen sink, his eyes down.

"Mulder, please don't walk away from me," she murmured into the  
quiet.

He turned his face to her and stared. She withered a bit under it.

"I know...I know you're angry with me," she stammered. "You'd have  
to be."

"I'm not angry with you, Scully," he said, monotone. "You've been  
through a lot. How could I be angry at you knowing that?"

"What I've been through doesn't give me the right to do what I did  
to you." She said it softly, meeting his eyes.

She could see his jaw working from here, the tense line of his  
mouth. He put the coffee cup down carefully, leaned against the sink,  
facing her, his arms crossed.

"What do you want from me, Scully?" he asked, and the question took  
her off guard.

"I..." She looked down, unable to meet his hard gaze. "I guess  
that...even though I know why I did what I did to you, that it was  
necessary on some level, that I want you to forgive me for it." She  
shrugged as she said it, her voice growing very faint at the last.

A flash of lightning popped at the window like a flashbulb going off.

"You're forgiven," he said, unmoving. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She looked at him. "And I came here to ask you to give me another  
chance."

"Another chance at what?" he snapped. It was there now. The anger  
was coming.

"To give *us* another chance," she said softly.

"There is no *us* anymore, Scully," he said. "There's just me and  
there's just you."

"Please don't say that." She looked down at her hands, feeling the  
frustrated tears rim her eyes at last.

"You know, I've had a lot of time to think, too, Scully," he  
continued, the words coming hard from him, his volume rising. "And  
I've realized something myself. You were right when you said I loved  
you too much, that I was blinded by it. I *lost* myself when I was  
with you. I forgot who I was. And I've finally gotten myself back and  
I'm not going to go back to that again. Not for ANYTHING."

His anger was so roiling now, his face like stone, his jaw pulsing.  
He leaned away from the counter and had it not been his place, she  
might have been afraid he would leave.

"I said that to hurt you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady  
in the face of his rage. "Mulder, you have to know that. I'm sorry I  
did it, but that's why I did. And I didn't believe that was true when  
I said it, and I don't believe it now. If you'll think about what we  
had before all this happened, you'll know that it's not true, too."

She paused, looking at him intensely. "I would have said anything to  
drive you away because of the pain I was in. It was never really  
about you, Mulder. Please try to understand that. But I hurt you  
terribly, I know. I'm so sorry for that--"

"Stop saying you're fucking sorry!" he roared, stunning her.

Another flash of lightning, and Mulder spun, picking up the coffee  
mug in a fist. Then it was out of his hand, flung at the wooden door  
where it crashed, sending a dark splash across the door's white  
surface as the pieces tumbled to the floor.

The dog bolted upright, his ears down. Then he jumped off the couch  
and scurried, almost on his belly, behind the television, wedging  
himself against the wall. Thunder rolled again, and rain began to  
spatter the windows.

Scully looked at Mulder in surprise, covered her mouth with her  
trembling hand. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen now, the  
heels of his hands dug into his eyes. She could see his chest rising  
and falling as though he'd been trapped in a box with no air and had  
just now gotten out.

"Mulder..." She rose, set her cup down, and went to him, anguished.  
She bit her lip, tears coming fast now as she stood before him. She  
murmured his name again.

"Go away," he whispered. "Please get away from me."

"No," she replied, and her voice shook. "I'm not going to go away.  
Not like this. I love you too much."

"Don't say that," he pleaded, his hands still over his eyes. His  
chest lurched on a sob.

She reached up and gripped his wrists. He resisted her gentle tug,  
and she drew them down more firmly until she revealed his eyes,  
clenched closed, his long lashes wet with tears.

"Don't..." he said, hoarse. "Leave me alone, Scully."

She took a step closer, let go of one of his hands so she could hold  
the side of his face. Her hand trembled against him, her thumb  
brushing at the tears.

"I *am* sorry, Mulder," she murmured, her voice tender but sure. "I  
was protecting myself. Protecting you, I thought. I was wrong. Let me  
help you now..."

She leaned forward, not knowing any other way to prove what she was  
saying to him. So she pulled his face down gently and brushed her  
lips to his cheek. When he didn't pull away, she went to his throat,  
tracing his skin with her mouth. She pressed a kiss to his forehead,  
feeling a tremor beginning to course through his tensed body.

Finally, she moved to his lips, touching her open mouth to his.

She felt something give in him with that, as though he'd been  
carrying something impossibly heavy and had finally set it down.

He pulled his arm away from her, shook his head against the emotions  
she could feel storming from him, the last of his resistance falling  
away.

His arms opened and she was suddenly in them as he nearly crushed  
her against his chest.

Her arms went around his neck, pulling his face onto her shoulder.  
He wept openly now, his body shaking with it. She cried with him, her  
hands stroking his hair, her lips on the side of his throat.

"Just let it go..." she murmured to him.

She lost her sense of how long they stayed together like that, the  
only sounds their hitched breathing and quiet cries.

Then a crack of lightning, and this time the lamp and the television  
went off, the room awash in darkness. The trailer creaked again in  
the wind, rain clambering on the window beside them.

There in the darkness he pulled back slowly from her, loosening his  
grip, his hands going to either side of her head, sliding through her  
damp hair. He rubbed his coarse cheek against hers, his lips grazing  
her closed eyes and the tears there. She pulled in a breath as he  
kissed her forehead, the skin beneath her eye, then finally her lips.

The kiss was not careful or gentle. It had the pull of a drowning  
man in it. She leaned her head back as he pressed into her, his mouth  
opening and hers with it. She teased his tongue with hers, surprising  
herself with her need to touch him like that. He responded  
immediately, stroking the inside of her mouth. She made a soft sound  
in her throat like a faint moan.

Then she couldn't breathe, a panicky feeling passing over her. She  
pulled back from his lips but held his face close to hers, their  
labored breathing mingling, tears still coming from both of them.

"You okay?" He held her face between his hands, his thumbs smoothing  
her tears over her skin.

She nodded. "We just need to slow down a little...we have to go slow."

"We don't have to do anything at all," he murmured, his voice still  
shaking. He started to pull away.

"No," she said, holding his forehead to hers. "I want to feel this.  
I want to feel everything." She whispered the last word against his  
mouth before she kissed him again, soft, searching. "Even the things  
that make me afraid."

He shook his head. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said with conviction, and she released  
him, stepped back and took his hand.

"Show me the way," she said, and he hesitated. She saw the doubt in  
him as a flash of lightning flickered, illuminating his face for a  
few seconds.

"Please," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

After a moment he squeezed back. She could hear him let out a slow  
breath, and knew he was gathering himself, calming.

Then he turned and led her down the hallway through the darkness.

 

His voice is my voice.

She thinks this in this dream-like world where they are twined,  
curled into each other.

Breathless words, half spoken in the language of sheets:

Here?

His voice in her ear, then his mouth on hers, searching. Careful.

Yes there...

Kiss after kiss, soft as rain.

His hands on her breasts, rough thumbs grazing her nipples. His  
tongue, warm and smooth, on them, his beard teasing the soft skin.

More...

Her voice stretches to a whisper with her need. His dark eyes answer  
from above her, saying yes.

Hands moving down her belly, between her legs. She opens herself to  
him as best she can, a hand gripping his arm.

Beautiful...

She smiles at the word. Time holds still.

Then his body on hers, the slow slope of his back her hands follow  
down, her leg pulled up to his waist.

Press of weight. Her fingers curling.

A gasp, her face turning away as he fills her, her body taut,  
resisting.

Shh...Relax...

His words like anchors, her, a small boat on a storm-tossed sea.

Please, Mulder...

Tell me...

No, don't stop...

Then the pleasure is there, beginning, mingled with tears she can't  
stop.

Shhh...it's all right. You're all right, Scully...

The quick rise and fall of his chest, her heart beating like a  
bird's, a strand of hair catching in the corner of her mouth as she  
turns her head, her eyes on his.

His hands on either side of her, his body moving, rhythmic, growing  
faster. His lip caught between his teeth, brow creasing, an  
expression like pain.

A pressure building in her, flush of heat, spreading like water  
through her belly.

Mulder...coming...

Yes...

I can't...

Yes, you can...

And a burst of light, her eyes closing against it, her mouth on his  
shoulder, teeth bearing down as wave after wave washes over her and  
she struggles to breath beneath them.

A moan wrenches from him.

He shudders in a rush of warmth. In a cry.

Then he is beside her, their foreheads pressing together. They relax  
into sweat. His fingers brush at her tears, gathering them.

Her hands in his hair, smoothing the wet hair at his temples.

His body, a harbor of light.

....love...

Love you...

The rain outside continues to fall, the storm raging, all of it  
feeling very far away.

Their pleasure ebbs between them like a tide, his lips on her damp  
hair, her face against his throat.

She finally drifts into sleep against him, her last thought that,  
despite everything...

We made this.

 

*****

APRIL 7  
5:40 a.m.

 

Mulder lay awake on his side, propped on one elbow, the sky going  
from black to a brighter blue-grey and beginning to illuminate the  
room around him, the last of the night falling away.

Scully lay beside him, facing him, deep in sleep. Her right hand  
held the covers up close to her bare chest; the left reached across  
the scant space between them, her fingers curled against his belly,  
the hand and arm trembling faintly even in her sleep.

Her hair spread out behind her, red across the pillow, her eyes  
shifting beneath her closed lids as she journeyed in the midst of a  
dream.

He felt like a Christmas child looking at her in his bed again, a  
small smile on his face, his head turning to get a better look at her  
features.

He reached out and fingered a strand of hair that had fallen across  
her face, stroking it back, smoothing her hair down and brushing her  
temple with his fingers. He worried about her dreaming, memories of  
the nightmares overtaking her burned into his mind.

Since he'd awoke, she'd made one small sound, a troubled sighing, so  
he kept his vigil over her as the dawn spread out around them.

Then, a knocking at the door, loud and insistent.

Victor...

Mulder carefully climbed over her from his place against the wall,  
trying to disturb her as little as possible as he made his way to the  
floor. Scully moaned softly at the movement, but did not awaken.

Once he got his feet over the side, Mulder nearly tripped over Bo,  
who had taken up a place at the side of the bed in the night. Bo  
opened his eyes and watched Mulder loot through the strewn clothes  
for his grey boxers, the dog's tail thumping lightly on the floor.  
Mulder smiled, stepped into his boxers and reached down to stroke  
Bo's head gently, then headed for the hallway before Victor could  
knock again.

The screen door was opening as Victor prepared to bang another time,  
and Mulder opened the door quickly, shards of the shattered mug  
pushing with it on the floor. Victor was holding the screen door and  
his hand was in the air in front of Mulder's chest in mid-knock.

"You're late *again*!" he exclaimed, and Mulder cringed at his  
volume.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Victor," he said quickly, keeping his own voice  
quiet, hoping Victor would follow suit.

Victor stared at him, at his hair, which Mulder knew must look a  
sight after a night of alternately sweating and sleeping, and at his  
red-rimmed eyes. And he was standing there in his underwear, as  
well....

"What the hell happened to you, man?" Victor laughed, banging him on  
the arm. "You look like you just got laid or something!"

Mulder grimaced, and he blushed from his mid-chest up. He put a  
finger over his lips, smiled an embarrassed smile.

Victor stilled, glanced over Mulder's shoulder, then back at his  
face. His smile melted away and he cringed.

"Oh," he said, and the new look on his face matched Mulder's. "Guess  
you get the day off, for sure," he said, and his voice was quiet now.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said again. "I know with the storm you must need  
some clean-up help, but I--"

"No, no," Victor said. "It's fine. It's all good. You can help me  
later today if you get the chance." He grinned, winked. "Or not."

Mulder reached out and grabbed hold of the screen door, shaking his  
head, but he was smiling. "Am-scray," he said softly, and Victor  
chuckled, put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and backed away  
as Mulder closed both the doors.

He turned and went back down the hallway to the spare bedroom where  
Scully lay, the room with the full-sized bed Mulder had avoided all  
this time because he couldn't stand to sleep in a bed with one side  
empty.

He turned the corner and stood in the doorway, stilled.

Scully was on her back now, her arms thrown over her face to cover  
her eyes, the sheet slipped down to her waist. A beam of light fell  
through the gap in the curtains from over the bed, splashing onto her  
breasts, the creamy white of her belly.

Mulder stared for several long seconds, captivated.

He smiled as he made his way to the bed, touching Bo's head again,  
who was now sprawled in the pile of clothes. Then Mulder sat on the  
edge of the bed slowly, carefully, put an arm over her, his hip  
barely touching hers.

He wanted to press a kiss between her breasts, wake her that way,  
his mouth moving over her skin...

Then something caught his eye beside one of her breasts.

A faint patch of red there, a chafe. He looked her over further and  
noted another on her shoulder near her throat, a spot of red beneath  
her jaw.

He reached down and lifted the covers, saw more. A streak on her  
smooth belly. Another half visible on the inside of her thigh.

He cringed, shook his head ruefully.

Oops.

He covered her up, and she turned fitfully, going back onto her  
side, mumbling something. He touched her gently and stood, padding  
silently out of the bedroom to the bathroom at the end of the hall,  
throwing on the light.

His toiletries bag was there, gaping open like a mouth. A can of  
shaving cream was on the counter, and he turned on the water,  
splashed it onto his face, drenching his beard to the skin. Then,  
taking a handful of foam, he worked it into the hair, rinsed his  
hands and pulled out his razor and an entire pack of refill blades,  
snug in their plastic holder.

Wetting the blade, he lifted his chin and began to shave.

 

A long time later, he was wiping his face with a towel, dabbing at  
the dots of blood on his face. Around him on the sides of the sink,  
the refill blades scattered, clogged with dark hair, whiskers all  
over the porcelain surface.

He wiped his face again, cleaning stray lines of white foam from  
around his ears, his sideburns, the towel feeling almost too rough on  
his overly sensitive skin.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

A man he used to know stared back at him.

A man he hadn't seen in a long long time.

Mulder smiled to him.

"Welcome back," he murmured to himself. "Welcome back."

 

**

In the bedroom down the hallway, Scully dreamed.

She and Mulder at an airport, the gate crowded, choked with people,  
all carrying tickets made of light. Mulder held one in his hand,  
fumbling it as he pushed his black trench over his arm, lifting his  
suitcase with his free hand.

She looked at him, taking in his appearance as though she had never  
seen him before and never would again.

Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Black tie patterned with silk  
outlines of birds in flight. His hair was shorter than she remembered  
from the night before, no beard. The suit hung on him beautifully,  
elegantly.

A suit good enough to be buried in, some voice in her said darkly.

She pushed the voice away, stared up Mulder, the crush of people all  
around them.

"Seats fifteen and higher may board," the attendant said, and Mulder  
looked down at his ticket.

"That's me," he said, and smiled at her. "Gotta move on, you know."

She looked down at herself. She was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt.  
There was a gun on her hip and something warm in her hand. She looked  
down at it.

A child stood there. A little girl holding her hand. At first she  
thought it might be Emily, but this was not Emily. It was another  
child. Dark hair, long and curled down her back. Eyes as blue as her  
own, but deeper, almost navy, and shining. The girl smiled up at her.

This is not my child, she thought in the dream, the part of her that  
was trying to wake her from it reasoning with her, almost pleading.

She looked back up at Mulder, who was still looking at her  
expectantly.

"Don't go," she said. She said it as warning. "We need to stay here,  
Mulder. We need to go home."

"I have to go," he replied kindly. "You know that." He reached up  
and touched her face with the hand that held the ticket. When he  
touched her, his hand was colder than ice. The light from the ticket  
all but blinded her.

She stepped back from him, terror coming over her, though at what  
she couldn't say. As the ticket receded, her eyes widened, panicked  
and disbelieving.

"I'll see you," he said, and leaned in to kiss her quickly. He  
gestured to the child. "Take care of her, all right?"

She nodded mutely, frozen in place, and he took a step back, his  
trench swinging as he turned and joined in with the line.

Someone came forward and took his ticket, and he disappeared down  
the dark tunnel of the gate.

 

Her eyes shot open, her hand going out to the worn mattress beside  
her. Sunlight beat in the window over the bed, and she shielded her  
eyes, struggling to orient herself.

"Mulder?" she called, the fear from the dream in her voice.

She rolled over, sitting up, drawing the sheet up to cover her  
chest. She looked around the room, at the battered dresser, its  
drawers crooked as teeth, the cheap rug, the rumple of clothes on the  
floor, on which the black dog from the night before was lying,  
looking up at her warily.

She leaned down and touched his head as if for reassurance that  
something in the room was real.

"Mulder?" she called again, and now she heard footsteps coming down  
the hall toward her.

He appeared in the doorway, a towel around his neck, his brow  
creased. "I'm right here," he said quickly, coming toward the bed.

She swallowed as he sat on the edge of it, looking into his face.

"You...you shaved your beard," she murmured, her eyes still wide.

He smiled, reached up to cradle the side of her throat, his thumb  
rubbing on her cheek.

"Yes," he said, his voice tender. "Some of us have sensitive skin."

His hand dropped down, pushing the sheet down, a finger brushing  
over the red spot beside her breast. Looking at the beard rash made  
her smile, as well, though it was a nervous one.

"You okay?" he asked, and she returned her eyes to his face. There  
were a few dots of blood on his face, and she reached her hand out,  
touching them with her fingers.

She looked at her hand. At his blood on her hands.

"Yeah," she said, trying her best to shake off the dream. "Yeah.  
Just a bad dream. Nothing new about that."

He nodded. "You want to talk about it?" he asked.

Good enough to be buried in....

She shook her head, pulled in a deep breath. "No," she said. "Could  
you...would you lie down with me again though?" She looked at him  
almost shyly as she said it, feeling like the words were a great  
concession.

He simply smiled back at her. "Sure," he murmured, and tossed the  
towel onto the floor, scooted over as she drew up her knees to give  
him room. Then he slipped under the covers, lying back, pulling her  
into his arms, urging her to curve her body against his.

She put her cheek against his chest, an arm around his ribcage,  
holding him tightly. Almost too tightly.

He sensed it. "It's okay, Scully," he whispered gently. "It was a  
dream."

She nodded against him, turned her face into his chest and kissed  
him there. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, rubbing his  
face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

We need to go home...

Good enough to be buried in...

She thought about it, closing her eyes as she drew a calming breath.

"Mulder, I want to go home," she said finally, and felt him go  
still. His breathing all but stopped for a long moment.

"You must have an overwhelming desire to see me in a day-glo orange  
jumpsuit behind three-inch glass," he quipped, stroking her hair.

"No," she murmured, not rising to the joke. "I'm terrified of that,  
in fact."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Padden won't protect you, Scully," he said. "We've been over this.  
Even Skinner says he won't. You're safer out here. We both are, until  
Curran's caught or Skinner tells us otherwise."

She leaned up, her chin on her forearm across his chest so she could  
look into his face. "Mulder," she began quietly. "Do you  
remember...when I had cancer...when I was in the hospital in  
Pennsylvania."

His face darkened, despite the dawn sun streaming on it. "Yes."

"Do you remember what you said to me in the hallway?" She didn't  
wait for him to respond as he looked into her eyes. "You said: 'The  
truth will save you. I think it will save both of us.'"

"I remember." He swallowed.

She pulled in a breath, let it out, gathering herself.

"We're running from a lie," she said. "You and I know the truth. And  
the truth will clear these charges against you. It will bring the  
investigation out of Padden's control and allow Skinner to protect  
me."

She reached up, stroked his face, soft now, smooth. "It *will* save  
both of us. And it's not out here where we are. It's back at home.  
And that's where we should be, too."

She inched forward, kissed his lips softly, bracing herself on her  
hands on either side of his body. His hands went to her back, her  
sides, his fingers brushing the sides of her breasts.

"Just think about it," she whispered as they parted, and his hands  
moved down her back, an urgency in his touch now that she recognized  
as his warm, familiar desire.

"I will," he replied, and leaned up to kiss her again.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 17 AND PART 2. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 18 AND PART 3.


	5. Chapter 5

********

2819 GRAYSIDE TERRACE  
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA  
7:46 a.m.

 

The man sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hand over his short-  
cropped hair as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The  
covers were rumpled behind him, evidence of yet another sleepless  
night spent tossing while his mind ground like the gears on a clock.

He'd had many such nights in the past two months. And he was growing  
tired of it, in more ways than the obvious.

Reaching over to the night table in his sparsely furnished bedroom,  
he picked up his wallet, opened it and thumbed through the large  
flap. He looted through receipts, dollar bills, until he found what  
he was looking for: a small slip of paper with a phone number written  
on it.

The numbers stared up at him. He stared back, thinking.

He could remember her so clearly if he let himself.

The weight of her hand on the center of his back. He was leaning  
over the empty autopsy table beside the one where she had been  
working as she took his class from the CIA through a forensic  
pathology lecture.

His stomach had been heaving, his face bright red both from the wave  
of nausea that had come over him and from his shame for swooning in  
the first place.

"Agent, are you all right?" she'd said gently, her other hand  
holding the glove she'd stripped off in haste to be able to touch  
him.

"I'm fine..." he'd said, forcing himself to stand, then he turned to  
look at the ruined corpse as if to prove to her and everyone else in  
the room that he could handle it after all.

Bile rolled up into his throat again at the sight of the entrails,  
all the blood...

"Maybe you should step out for a few minutes," she said gently, and  
he turned instead to her. So small beside him. Blue eyes looking at  
him with concern. "You can come back in a few minutes. This happens  
to a lot of people. Don't worry about it."

She'd said all that loud enough for the other ten agents to hear,  
putting his dignity back over him like a blanket laid over his  
shoulders.

He'd admired her by reputation for a long time. Now he admired her  
for her kindness to him, the respect with which she treated him.

It was a small thing she'd done for him, true.

But he never forgot a kindness like that. And he never forgot how  
much he respected her for her keen intelligence, her quiet strength,  
and for the difficult work that she did, and did so well.

He sighed, fingering the slip of paper. He'd been so idealistic  
then. He thought he'd join the CIA to do some good, to do something  
important that he could be proud of.

He was not proud now. And he was not doing good. Those were about  
the only two things of which he was certain.

The man stood now in his pajama bottoms, set down his wallet and  
picked up his keys from the night table. Then he went through the  
bedroom to his office across the hall, the phone number still in his  
hand.

Swiveling his leather chair so he could sit, he sifted through the  
keys on the ring, choosing a small silver one and separating it from  
the others in between his fingers. Then he leaned over to the file  
cabinet beside the desk, unlocked the top drawer, leaving the keys  
dangling, clattering metal on metal.

He shifted files, going to the bottom of the drawer to the accordion  
folder, easing it out from beneath his tax returns and appliance  
manuals, then set it in front of him, opening its flap and lifting  
the contents out.

Color copies of photographs. Copies he was not supposed to have, but  
had been secretly making over the past few weeks as his doubts about  
what he was doing had begun to fester, making him more and more ill  
with guilt.

Her at a gas station, so frail now, so thin, her clothes hanging on  
her.

She and Mulder coming out of a motel room.

And then the picture that he now regretted having shown Padden at  
all. The one of the two of them on the cliff, seated in what was  
clearly a lover's embrace. Mulder's arms around her as though he were  
sheltering her from the forces that were closing in on them.

Little did either of them know who some of those forces were, or how  
close. Standing right beside them at that moment, in fact. Watching.

And waiting.

Post-traumatic stress seems to be setting in nicely...

The words had made him wince when Padden had said them then, and  
they did the same to him now as he looked at the photographs.

She didn't deserve this. To suffer like this. Neither of them  
deserved this. To be sacrificed like lambs at Padden's personal  
slaughter.

He had to do something. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't.  
It might cost him everything, but he knew what the right thing to do  
was. He'd known for a long time. He'd just been too worried about his  
own hide to do it.

He laid the pictures down, set down the piece of paper with the  
phone number on it and reached for his phone there beside him on the  
desk.

 

*********

 

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE  
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA  
8:03 a.m.

 

Paul Granger sat with a new stack of photographs in front of him,  
flipping through them, studying the faces of a dozen strangers caught  
on videotape in a dozen different gas stations and convenience stores  
across Southern California.

He had his office door open, hoping he looked suitably busy to the  
rest of the task force milling in the hallway, though he was, of  
course, just killing time with this stack. Mulder and Scully were  
about as likely to be seen in Southern California as he was at this  
point.

What he was really waiting for was the stack of possible Curran  
sightings that was supposed to come through around noon. That was his  
only interest at this point. The stacks he'd been looking at for  
weeks now had yielded nothing.

Wherever Curran was hiding, he was hiding but good.

Granger considered this. He'd decided that Curran couldn't have  
stayed this out of reach for this long unless he was staying  
somewhere, most likely being hidden by someone.

He wondered, for the hundredth time, by whom.

Word from MI6 was that the IRA wanted nothing to do with Curran  
anymore. That they might, in fact, have gone so far as to put a hit  
out on him. There'd been a lot of suspected IRA members moving in and  
out of U.S. Customs for the past couple of months. More than usual  
since the embassy bombing. It concerned the CIA and the other  
intelligence communities greatly, to have their presence becoming  
more entrenched on U.S. soil, so many of them fleeing Northern  
Ireland now that the uneasy peace had finally come.

Granger leaned back in his chair, took off his small silver glasses  
and cleaned them absently on his maroon tie, thinking.

Between the drug that Curran had used to kill the group in Richmond,  
all of them dying horrible deaths over the course of week, and then  
some clear hits on members in the Northeast corridor, the Path was  
all but decimated. So they couldn't be the ones hiding Curran...

And who were those men who had tried to grab Scully in Arizona?  
Scully had said they were American, or at least a couple of them  
were.

Someone in the U.S. then, he decided. Perhaps some extreme group  
that would condone Curran's obsessiveness and his methods. One of the  
militias, perhaps?

But hired by someone who was not American? The militias hated  
outsiders as a general rule, distrusting even the UN, thinking that  
the U.S.'s contact with other countries was tantamount to giving the  
country away to "the New World Order."

Granger shook his head just thinking about that level of paranoia.

How would Curran get a militia to go to work for him?

Granger thought about this, replacing his glasses. Then he swiveled  
around to his computer, already logged in to the CIA's databank. He  
tapped in "Militias -- Southwestern United States," and waited while  
the computer cycled through the database.

From inside his black suit jacket, his cell phone rang, and he  
reached to where the jacket was draped over his chair, pulled it out,  
answering it almost absently as his eyes stayed glued on the screen,  
a row of names coming up, a description beneath each of them.

"Granger," he said, distracted.

"Agent Granger?" a man's voice asked.

"Yes, this is he," Granger replied, reading and listening at the  
same time.

A long pause.

"Hello?" Granger said finally, his attention pulling away from the  
screen now as his brow furrowed at the silence.

"Agent Granger, I have...some information for you about your current  
investigation. Into the case against Agents Mulder and Scully." The  
voice was steady and hesitant at the same time.

Granger sat up straighter now, going still.

This person knew about him heading the task force, which was not  
exactly common knowledge outside the agencies involved.

He knew about the task force's investigation being not just into  
Curran and the bombing.

And he knew Granger's cell phone number, to boot.

In other words, he knew too much to be one of the dozens of cranks  
who called every day, claiming information on some aspect of the  
case, phone calls usually filtered to him through the main  
switchboard.

An agent. Someone from the FBI, National Security...

Or the CIA itself?

He pulled the phone from his ear and checked the number of his  
caller ID.

Blocked. No surprise there. He replaced the phone at his ear.

"What sort of information?" Granger said, not giving away any of  
these thoughts in the evenness of his voice.

Another beat of silence. "I'd rather not discuss this over the  
phone," the man said. "I'd like to meet with you. I have something to  
give you that will clear a few things up for you, I think."

Granger was completely perplexed at this point, red flags having  
begun to wave in his mind's breeze. But he was intrigued as well. He  
glanced nervously at the door to his office, gaping open like an eye.  
He rose and went to it, closing it quickly, turned his back to it and  
stood in the center of the office, his free hand on his hip.

"All right," he said. "Where would you like to meet?"

"There's a parking deck on the Metro station in Silver Spring," the  
man said. "Meet me on the lower level. I'll be there at noon. In the  
furthest corner from the elevators."

Granger felt a smile tugging at his lips. "I think you've seen 'All  
the President's Men' too many times," he quipped, "but all right."

"I don't want you to see my face," the man replied. "It's not safe  
for you to see my face, to know who I am. Not safe for me. I'm being  
watched off and on. You are. We all are. I think you know that."

Definitely an agent, Granger decided, the words stilling him even  
more.

But why would an agent want to have a clandestine meeting like this?  
Why not just come into the office and talk to him?

Unless this was about something internal...

A chill settled over him. Something was wrong here, he thought. Very  
wrong indeed.

"I'll be there at noon," Granger said solemnly. "I'm about 5'10,  
black--"

"I know what you look like, Agent Granger," the man interrupted  
calmly. "Thank you for doing this. And please..." A beat. "Come  
alone."

"I will," Granger replied, the hair on his arms standing on end. And  
then the line went dead.

 

***********

 

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
ALDER CREEK, COLORADO  
8:08 a.m.

 

Jimmy Shea sat in the barren tree stand, his touring cap on, blowing  
on a cup of strong coffee he'd been given by one of the other two men  
who sat around him, their rifles across their laps and pipe and  
cigarette smoke curling around them. There was a young boy there, as  
well -- Thomas, Shea recalled now -- who was sitting very still,  
watching the clearing through the trees, glancing at Shea  
uncertainly.

Something about Shea himself made the boy nervous, almost afraid. He  
wondered what it was as he sipped the coffee, its rich-smelling steam  
rising to his nose and eyes.

Shea's own rifle leaned against the tree, a lovely Browning loaned  
to him by the men who had invited him to go hunting with him that  
morning. He'd driven all night from South Dakota and arrived at the  
compound some time after midnight, barely finding the place. Only  
Rutherford's careful directions, given to him by this man Kingston  
who he'd met at breakfast, had gotten him there in the darkness.

The people had treated him well since his arrival, even extending  
the generous invitation to come out on the morning's hunt.

Shea wondered how much they knew of his errand. If they did know  
what it was, they seemed to welcome it. From a few comments made over  
the morning meal when the subject of "the last Irish feller" came up,  
he'd gotten the impression that Owen Curran had not been well-liked.

There was a slight chilly wind, and he pulled his camouflaged jacket  
closer around himself, happy for the fingerless gloves. Springtime  
seemed to be coming slowly this high in the mountains.

Shea yawned despite himself, and one of the men chuckled softly next  
to him. "Should have let you go back to bed, Mr. Shea," the man,  
Freddy, said amiably.

"Nah, I'm fine," Shea said, smiling back. "I'll perk up any time  
now. Just a long drive last night is all. And I'm afraid I'm not as  
young as I used to be."

"Ain't none of us that are," the other man said, spitting tobacco  
over the side of the deer stand. This man, Boyce, had an accent that  
was thicker than that of the others, Shea noted. He was from the  
mountains of West Virginia, he'd told Shea earlier, and had added he  
couldn't wait to get back home again.

Shea knew the feeling well.

He'd called Ruby that morning before breakfast, spoken to her  
briefly. Her voice had been sad, though she'd been trying to hide the  
feeling from him, trying to sound strong and easy, telling stories  
about the neighbors. A good one about Glen O'Reilly's boat that he'd  
built and put in the sea. It had taken on enough water within the  
hour that by the time he came home, just the top sides were showing  
above the water.

Shea had laughed, though he knew the story for the cover that it  
was. He knew her far too well after so many years.

"There's one," Freddy hissed, and Shea looked up, saw the bobbing of  
a set of antlers over the brush at the far edge of the clearing. He  
set his coffee cup down without a sound, picked up his rifle just as  
silently. The other men did the same. Thomas took the thermos of  
coffee from Boyce, the pipe from Freddy, his eyes wide as he watched  
the deer.

Slowly it emerged, tentative, its head stretched up, turned from  
side to side as it left the cover of the trees. It was huge, Shea  
noted, admiring it. Strong mature antlers with many points. He knew  
the more it had, the more desirable it was. A massive, muscled body  
and wide chest.

He sighted it through the rifle. A tree blocked his way. He lowered  
the rifle.

"No shot," he whispered.

"Me neither," Freddy said at the same volume. "Boyce?"

"Yeah," Boyce said, his eye squinched closed as the other looked  
through the scope. "I got him..." His finger went to the trigger, the  
gun already bolted...

A clatter of noise as Thomas dropped the thermos, the plastic cup on  
top falling from the stand to the ground below.

Shea looked at him, then at the deer. It had taken off with the  
sound, running parallel to the treeline, streaking across the  
clearing at top speed.

"Aw, Thomas, for God's sake..." Boyce said, lowering his rifle.  
Freddy did the same.

"I'm sorry!" Thomas said quickly. "I didn't mean it, I swear!"

Shea ignored him, watching the deer as it continued to fly across  
the field. It wasn't going back into the trees...

He raised the rifle, following the animal through the scope.

"Mr. Shea, it's too late," Freddy said. "He's gone now."

He tracked the deer, his body swiveling quickly, locking the animal  
in the cross-hairs. It was 200 feet or more away now and still moving  
fast.

It was all dully familiar to Shea. He didn't even have to close his  
other eye to sight as he followed it.

He took in a breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

The shot tore through the trees, the sound echoing around them like  
thunder. Freddy and Boyce were standing now, their guns loose in  
their hands and their mouths agape.

The deer stopped almost instantly, a ragged hole in its chest, shot  
straight through the heart. It fell, digging up dead grass with its  
antlers as it skid to a halt.

It didn't move again.

Shea lowered the weapon, bolted out the cartridge. It pinged on the  
wooden deck of the stand and down onto the ground below, glinting  
gold.

"Jesus H. Christ," Freddy breathed.

"I ain't never seen a shot like that," Boyce rejoined, shaking his  
head. "Not never in my whole life."

Shea turned and looked at the three of them. They all looked back, a  
mixture of awe and fear on their faces.

Especially on Thomas', Shea noted. The boy swallowed as he looked at  
him, his face blanched.

Shea smiled to them, not proud of their reaction. He shouldn't have  
done what he just did, he told himself. He should have let the deer  
go. He didn't even know why he'd done it at all.

"Got lucky, is all," he tried, waving a hand. "Just blind luck."

The men said nothing to that. They weren't going for it.

Shea smiled again, cringing a bit with it, and took off his hat. He  
wiped his forehead, replaced the cap snugly.

There was a long beat of silence where none of them moved.

"Now how do we get it back then?" Shea asked finally, his voice a  
little firmer now.

With that the men were struck out of their staring and began to  
hurriedly gather their things.

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
8:16 a.m.

 

The pleasure washed through her, throbbing him.

Her heavy breath was caught in the cup of his ear and he shivered  
with the moan that came from her, felt it vibrating up from somewhere  
deep in her chest. He could feel it rising through her, his hands on  
her shoulder blades, stroking her soft, slick skin with his rough  
palms.

She shuddered in his lap, his name coming from her in a shaking  
whisper.

He smiled with it, pressed a long kiss on her jaw.

She loosened her grip around his neck, reached for his wrists behind  
her and moved his hands, slow, down to her hips. She was still  
pulsing against him, pushing, urging him on as she offered her body  
to him.

He knew the tears would come.

The night had taught him that.

Her breath drew in sharply, trembled out, and he felt the first  
tears on his temple. She gasped.

"Oh God..." she said, and her voice broke. Her hands gripped his  
wrists hard. "I'm sorry..."

"No, you don't have to be sorry..." he murmured against her,  
soothing her as she buried her face against the side of his throat.  
"It's okay. Don't hold it back..."

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. Her hips surged against his  
again.

His breath caught and his fingers tightened their hold around her  
thin hips.

"Scully, we can stop..." he whispered as he released the breath. "We  
can stop right now..."

"No," she said again, more firmly this time.

And then she moved, kissed his mouth, staying there, their breathing  
growing harsh and mingling, his open lips lightly touching hers.

He closed his eyes...

When he came, her lips were still against his, his whole body  
shaking as he moaned into her mouth.

He struggled for breath against her for a long moment, holding her  
in a firm embrace.

He breathed her name.

Then he kissed her lips gently, the taste of their lovemaking water  
and salt.

 

**

11:33 a.m.

 

Scully stood at the sink washing the skillet, warm water and soap  
running over her hands. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her  
forearms drenched. She was enjoying the simple pleasure of the task,  
lingering over it, filling the skillet with water and emptying it,  
filling it again.

Mulder was taking a shower down the hallway, the water pressure in  
the sink struggling against the pull. She'd just taken one herself,  
her wet hair pushed behind her ears. Her hair was long enough now  
that it touched her shoulders, making her shirt slightly damp where  
it touched.

She hummed softly to herself, off-key as usual, but she smiled  
nonetheless.

She felt better than she had in months, a tenuous sense of peace  
settling over her.

The problems were all still there, of course. It was her attitude  
about it all that had changed. She saw ways out now, not the  
unscalable walls she'd been confronted with everywhere she turned  
before.

She and Mulder were together again. The pain between them would no  
doubt linger for some time, she knew, the ghosts of what had happened  
still lurking in the shadows. She didn't fool herself into thinking  
otherwise.

The tears from a few hours ago and last night told her that.

But they had still come a long way in just the past night. Mulder  
had ridden through the storm with her, staying with her, patient and  
tender.

They would get through the rest of the journey together.

And it seemed there was something new between them now, something  
warm and honest and strong. She could feel it stretching between them  
like a golden thread, even at times like this, when he wasn't really  
with her.

It made her smile as she emptied the skillet again.

A soft whine from beside her, and she looked down to see Bo sitting  
there, hunkered in on himself, his head down, but his eyes glancing  
up at her.

"What is it, Bo?" she asked softly. "You hungry?"

He stood and shifted from foot to foot, his ears coming up a little.  
She smiled. The dog knew that word well.

She put the pan in the drainer, reached for the plates then, the  
remnants of their eggs, Mulder's bacon, crusts of bread. She scraped  
it all onto one plate and set it down on the floor. Bo looked at her  
doubtfully, then put his head down and began to eat.

She looked fondly at the dog as she rinsed the other plate. Another  
thing she learned in the past night and this morning: Mulder loved  
this dog. It was a strange thing to see from him, a man who had  
killed enough tropical fish to fill the National Aquarium in just the  
time she'd known him.

And a man who had treated her own dog getting eaten by an alligator  
with something akin to relief.

She shook her head, her lips curling up. That was a long time ago.  
He was so different now.

And she found the whole thing with Bo endearing. Like a new facet of  
him she hadn't know was there.

The dog seemed to tolerate her fairly well, too, which she was happy  
about. Mulder had said he usually ran when others came around.

She heard the water cut off, the bathroom door open, flooding the  
hallway with steam and the smell of crisp deodorant soap. She  
continued with the dishes, washing her mug from the night before, the  
bent forks and battered knives, listening to him bumping around in  
what had been his bedroom.

A flash of the dream from the night before. The little girl looking  
up at her with such trust, smiling. And Mulder walking away, getting  
lost in the darkness...

Arms curled around her waist, startling her enough that she dropped  
the handful of silverware she was holding into the sink with a  
clatter. She didn't realize she'd been staring out the window over  
the sink until then, until she felt him nuzzling the hair from her  
neck, felt his warm breath and lips against her there.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against her skin. "I didn't mean to scare  
you."

"It's okay," she replied, her voice the same tone. She leaned back  
into him. "I was just thinking about something and forgot where I was  
for a second."

"You're right here," he said against her ear, and she shivered. Then  
he added in a whisper. "With me..."

She made a soft sound of assent in her throat, reached for his  
forearms, gave them a squeeze. Then she turned her head so their lips  
could meet. It was a chaste, soft kiss, devoid of the urgency of  
before, the desperate need to touch and be touched. It was familiar.  
Somehow contented.

Their lips parted, and she released his arms and picked up the  
silverware again, rinsing them. He kept a loose hold on her waist as  
he stood up straighter, his chin almost on top of her head.

"What's on tap for today?" he asked. "Anything you need to do?"

She nodded, putting the flatware in the dish drainer's basket. "Yes,  
I need to take Ghost back up to Albert Hosteen's place. And I was  
thinking I might go to my trailer and maybe move a few things down  
here, if that's all right with you..."

She could feel his smile. "Hmm...I don't know..." he said, nuzzling  
her hair. "How long do I get to think about it?"

She smiled, as well, jabbed him lightly. He sucked in a breath.

"Oh Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, reached back and put her hand on  
his belly beneath his ribs. She's forgotten the giant bruise for a  
moment, big as a dinner plate, that stretched from his side to just  
below his sternum.

"It's okay," he said, put his hand over hers. "It looks a lot worse  
than it feels at this point."

"I certainly hope so," she replied, looked down. "Could you hand me  
Bo's plate?"

The dog was still standing there, looking up at them plaintively. He  
was the most worried looking thing she'd ever seen.

Mulder released her, bent down to retrieve the plate, giving the dog  
a stroke as he did so. He stayed bent as he handed the plate up to  
her, rubbing the dog's back and sides gently. Bo leaned against  
Mulder's knees, panting.

"Good boy," Mulder said softly. "That's a good boy."

Scully smiled and washed the plate.

 

A few minutes later, they were out the door, walking the few hundred  
yards to Victor's house and the corral beyond, Bo trotting along  
beside them. The sun was high overhead, hot today. Scully squinted  
against it, wishing for her sunglasses or her hat.

They passed Victor's double-wide, the sprawling concrete front porch  
littered with coffee mugs from the men's morning meal, which Victor  
made almost every day for his workers, most of them family.

In front of the corral, a large pickup truck with a camper top on  
it. Across the side, a huge American flag, and the words "American  
Blacksmithing." Scully looked near the stable and saw the blacksmith  
at work.

On Ghost, in fact. Victor was holding the horse's head as the  
blacksmith stood, Ghost's front leg caught between his knees as he  
pounded a shoe onto the horse's pale hoof.

"Hey! Come on over!" Victor called, waving them forward from where  
they'd both stopped at the sight of a stranger. They looked at each  
other, wary.

But Scully felt safe here, felt the Hosteen's would protect them as  
best they could. So Victor's trust meant a lot to her.

With that thought in mind, she started forward, Mulder following. Bo  
hung behind, sitting beside the truck.

They approached and Victor smiled at both of them.

"Tim. Lisa," he said, tipping the brim of his hat to Scully.

"Hello, Victor," Scully said, gave him a small smile in return.  
Mulder said the same.

"What are you two up to this afternoon? Besides shaving Tim's rough-  
looking beard off?" Victor grinned. "Did you both come to work for me  
today?" He winked at Scully.

Scully smiled a bit wider. "Not exactly," she said. "I was going to  
take Ghost back up to your grandfather's, but I see--"

"I'm almost done with him," the blacksmith panted without looking  
up. His voice was muffled a bit by the fat nails he had hanging out  
of the corner of his mouth, but he was clearly used to talking around  
them.

"It was good he was down here," Victor said. "We usually have to go  
get him anyway when Jim comes."

Now the blacksmith -- Jim -- did look up, waved a greeting to both  
of them with his hammer. He was a heavy-set man, blonde crewcut and  
stubble on his cheeks. He wore thick glasses to protect his eyes, and  
a black t-shirt underneath his leather apron, the words "Born to..."  
peeking up from above the bib. Scully wondered, bemused, what the man  
was, in fact, born to do.

"Hello," she said, her voice a bit hedged but friendly.

Jim looked at Mulder, then at her. He froze as he looked at her,  
looking her up and down, then settling on her face for a long few  
seconds. A nail dropped out of his mouth.

She squirmed a little under his strange gaze. It was leering, but  
also not. She didn't quite know what to make of it, but she didn't  
like it. She knew that much.

Mulder didn't, either. She felt rather than saw him chafe beside  
her. He took a step closer to her.

"Hi there, Jim," Mulder said, drippingly friendly. "Tim Garrett.  
This is my wife, Lisa." Scully could swear she heard a little extra  
emphasis drop on the word "wife." It made her want to roll her eyes  
and laugh at the same time.

They'd settled on the cover as a married couple many many weeks ago  
to avoid flustering the dozens of motel managers they'd had contact  
with while on the road. But Mulder seemed to be taking the cover a  
bit more seriously all of a sudden.

He could be so protective sometimes, she thought, but loved him too  
much for the intention of it to be truly irritated.

It had the desired effect, however. Jim looked up at Mulder, his  
face flushing an even deeper red than it already was from the sun and  
the exertion of bending over his own sizable gut.

"Good to meet you," he said hurriedly, then with one final glance at  
Scully -- this time at her chest in the white shirt, as though he  
couldn't quite help himself -- he went back to work on Ghost's hoof.

"You taking the Bronco up to Grandfather's, or you want a horse?"  
Victor asked Mulder, breaking the moment with one of his wide, amused  
smiles.

"We're...ah...going to be picking up a few things," Mulder said. "So  
I think it would be easier if we took the Bronco. Let Lisa ride him  
up there and me drive beside."

"That's good," Victor said. "Just go slow. He's an old man." He  
rubbed the horse's nose affectionately.

"All done," Jim said, and dropped the horse's leg, tossed his hammer  
toward his tool chest as he stood. He reached behind him and pulled a  
dirty-looking bandanna out of his back pocket, mopped at his face.

"Come on," Victor said to both her and Mulder. "Let's go get him  
saddled." He looked at Jim. "Go ahead and start on you-know-who." He  
pointed.

Scully watched Mulder turn and look off to his right, where a black  
and white horse stood tied to a post. Scully could swear the horse  
scowled at him.

"That's the one, isn't it?" she said, and he turned back to her,  
rubbing his belly.

"You guessed it," he replied, a chagrined smile on his face.

"Let me get my goddamn football helmet," Jim grunted, and went  
toward the horse.

 

***********

 

END OF CHAPTER 18a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 18b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 18b.

 

**********

 

METRO PARKING GARAGE  
LOWER LEVEL SILVER  
SPRING, MARYLAND  
11:55 a.m.

 

The place was thick with shadows and the smell of oil, the musty  
smell of the dark. It met Granger's expectations of a meeting place  
for this type of thing so well that he felt strangely comfortable  
with it, his nerves under some semblance of control as he walked to  
the farthest corner of the lot. His footsteps echoed in the cavern-  
like space.

The lot was full, not a space left from the crush of morning  
commuters, which he expected. There would be little traffic down here  
to spook whomever this person was who had called him. As it was, he  
didn't see another soul moving around this far away from the  
elevators, hundreds of feet and cars away.

Granger began to weave in between the cars, going around vehicles  
and cement supports, headed toward the corner, which was bathed in  
near-darkness.

"Stop."

The voice came out of nowhere, the echo of it bounding off the  
walls, a hollow sound. Granger froze instantly, trying to orient the  
direction the voice had come from.

Somewhere in front of him. Three supports that he couldn't see  
behind, and which were already poorly lit.

The man must be behind one of them, he thought, though he couldn't  
tell, with the acoustics, which one it was.

He shifted his weight, then held his ground, his hands going to the  
pockets of his black trench coat. He wanted to appear unruffled, and  
hoped that was what he was doing.

Silence stretched for a moment.

The man was having doubts. Second thoughts. Granger could sense it  
from here.

"You're doing the right thing by talking to me," he said quietly.  
"If you have any information that could help me, you're doing the  
right thing."

Again a beat of silence.

"You said you had something to show me. Please show it to me."  
Granger held his breath, hoping him taking the lead on this, prodding  
the man like this, wouldn't scare him away.

From the shadows in front of him, something slid along the floor  
with a hiss, stopped at his feet. It was a brown accordion folder, an  
elastic band holding down the flap. Granger looked into the darkness  
in front of him, then down at the folder.

"Open it," the voice said.

Middle support, Granger decided. That's where he was. Though he  
could see nothing.

Granger bent slowly, picked up the folder and unwrapped the band  
from it, reached in. He pulled out a thin stack of paper, tucked the  
folder under his arm. He turned slightly to get a look at the sheets  
in the dim electric light.

His eyes widened as he looked carefully at each picture, his heart  
picking up speed.

"Where did you get these?" he asked. "And how recent are they?"

"The last one is from about three weeks ago, I think. The one of  
them on the cliff. The others have been taken over the past months."

"Where did you get them?" Granger repeated, urgent.

"I'm on a task force run by Padden, too, Agent Granger," the voice  
said. There was no inflection in it at all. "We've been tailing  
Mulder and Scully for months now, since they disappeared. We caught  
up with them about two weeks after Mulder left Richmond."

Granger's head was spinning as it tried to catch up with what he was  
hearing. He looked down at the pictures, then toward the support.

"So Padden's known where they are all along," he said.

"Except for where they are now, yes," the voice replied. "We've lost  
them in the past couple of weeks. Padden's about to have heads  
rolling over it."

Granger nodded, understanding -- as bitter as it was -- coming over  
him. "He's watching them to wait until Curran gets to them. Gets to  
Agent Scully."

Another beat. "Yes. And, he hopes, kills Agent Mulder while taking  
her."

Granger felt heat rise on his face. "You can't be serious," he said  
incredulously. "Not even Padden would--"

"You don't know Padden the way I do, Agent Granger," the voice  
interrupted. "He'll do anything to catch Curran at this point, to  
save face over what happened at the bombing. And he'll do anything to  
get Mulder, because it's Mulder who has tainted his reputation in the  
first place by figuring out where the bombing would take place. He  
wants Mulder out of the way. First disgraced so that Padden being at  
the British Embassy will seem the more correct course of action --  
the only one to take without supposed 'inside knowledge.' That's  
where these charges are coming from."

Granger shook his head in disgust. "So he also knows the charges are  
false."

"Yes. And he has no real intention of letting Mulder live long  
enough to risk prosecuting him on them. He knows they won't stick  
with what you know. What Walter Skinner knows. What Agent Scully  
knows. He knows Mulder didn't shoot John Fagan. The ballistics don't  
even match Mulder's service weapon, though that's being suppressed,  
as well. Along with everything else."

The man paused. "He's waiting for Curran to clean up the mess for  
him. And Curran's gotten close already. It's only a matter of time  
before Padden gets what he wants. Mulder *will* die to protect her.  
Everyone is sure of that. And whoever Curran's got working for him  
won't be as careless -- or as shorthanded -- the next time they  
come."

Granger nodded again. His breathing had picked up as his mind raced  
with what to do with all this. "We can bring them in, given what you  
just told me. We could--"

"Mulder and Scully are expendable," the voice snapped, sounding  
irritated. "As long as Padden is still operating in the dark, their  
lives are in danger. As soon as they're no longer of use to catch  
Curran, Padden will find a way to get rid of them both. Here *or* out  
there. He'll blame Curran for whatever happens to Scully. Mulder  
would just meet up with an unfortunate accident, after Padden  
finished ruining his reputation to save himself."

Granger swallowed hard. "What do we do then?"

"The only hope you have to save them is for you to take those  
pictures and what I've told you and go to Ashcroft as quickly as you  
can. Get Skinner to do it. He's got more connections, and still has  
come clout. And then hope Ashcroft will listen to him this time."

"Okay," Granger said. He felt sick in his stomach with all he was  
hearing, at the blackness of what was going on. It pained him to look  
at it, to even tangentially be a party to it.

"It's going to be hard to convince Ashcroft," the voice continued.  
"He trusts Padden implicitly. But the pictures will lend credibility  
to what Skinner says. He might listen with those in front of him,  
knowing that Padden's been using your task force as a cover for what  
he's really doing. Ashcroft doesn't know about that and it will cast  
considerable doubt on Padden."

"All right," Granger said. "I'll go to Skinner right away and tell  
him everything you've told me."

"I'm assuming Skinner knows where Mulder and Scully are. Padden  
assumes he knows. That's how they've stayed hidden for this long.  
Wherever they are, get to them. Warn them. And once Padden is  
exposed, get them some backup from the FBI. The FBI isn't involved.  
It's the only agency that's got clean hands in this thing, that isn't  
under Padden's control in some way. Skinner's presence has made sure  
of that."

Granger nodded. "I'll get to them as fast as I can."

They fell into silence. Finally Granger broke it.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Why would you tell me all this,  
knowing what it could mean for you?"

"I..." The first sign of hesitation, regret, in the voice now. "I  
didn't join up to do this kind of work. I have no stomach for it. And  
I've been swallowing it for a long time now. I'm full. Plus..."

"Plus what?" Granger asked as the man hesitated.

The voice responded quietly, almost shyly. "Agent Scully treated me  
like a friend once. I'm just returning the favor."

Granger nodded. "Thank you. What you've given me, what you've  
said...it will save her life. And Mulder's."

"If you get to them in time," the voice said, hard and business-like  
again. "You've got to hurry. Curran's close. We're sure of that. No  
matter how well Skinner's hidden them."

Granger replaced the photos in the folder, closed it. "If you need  
protection...if you get in any danger...go to Skinner."

"They'll be no protecting me if I'm found out," the voice said  
grimly. "But thank you anyway. Now go. Please."

Granger nodded, turned, and did as he'd been told.

He did his best not to look back.

 

********

 

KOKOPELI PAWN AND THRIFT  
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO  
4:38 p.m.

 

The man watched Jim Rupert, owner of American Blacksmithing and a  
proud member of the New Mexico Militia, hold the flyer closer to the  
light overhead, looking carefully at the face beside the picture of  
the other woman and a young boy. Rupert switched his toothpick from  
one corner of his mouth to the other, nodding.

"Uh-yeah. That's her all right," Rupert said to him there behind at  
the desk, handed the picture back. "Same one on the flyer we got at  
the Militia meeting. She don't quite look that good anymore, but she  
looks good enough."

"You're sure?" the man said, holding up the flyer in front of him  
again. Rupert nodded.

"Sure as shit," he said. "Now what about that reward for  
information?"

The man sighed, reached over and began turning the combination lock  
on the safe, the sound of metal rolling in metal filling the small  
office.

"Victor Hosteen's place, you say?" he asked as he turned the wheel,  
tumblers falling.

"Yeah," Rupert said. "There's a trailer out behind Victor's place.  
Used to belong to old Albert's brother Larry. They're staying there."

"Who's 'they'?" He pulled the safe open with a heavy creak.

Rupert shrugged. "She's got her husband with her. That's who he said  
he was. Some man named Tim Garrett. She's going by Lisa Garrett, but  
that could all be a bunch of horseshit for all I know."

The man reached into the safe and pulled out a stack of hundred  
dollar bills, pulled five crisp ones of the top and handed them over.  
"I know where to find you through Kevin at the Militia if you're  
lying to me or you're wrong, right? And you'll be good enough to give  
that back if that's the case."

"I know you can find me," Rupert said peevishly. "I wouldn't be here  
if I didn't know I was right."

The man nodded. "It's good of you to come and tell me, Jim. The boss  
will be mighty happy to hear the news. And I'm glad we can all work  
together, despite our little differences here and there."

Rupert nodded. "No problem," he said, and waved the cash. "Much  
obliged. Good luck bringing her in for whatever is she done. And  
don't go mentioning my name when you go to get her, all right? I been  
working at the Hosteen's for years now. Don't want to lose no  
business over this, you know."

The man nodded. "Not a word," he said, and turned back to his desk.  
Rupert took the hint and left.

He reached over to his Rolodex, flipped through it slowly until he  
got to the number he wanted.

L. Kingston. Kentucky.

He reached over and picked up the phone.

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
6:39 p.m

 

Honey. Oil. Salt. Yeast. Flour.

Albert Hosteen watched Scully mix the ingredients together from  
beside the counter, smiling a bit despite himself. She kneaded the  
dough until it was firm and came clean off her hands.

He sat on a stool next to her, his pipe held in the corner of his  
mouth, the room smelling like the fat seeping bubbles in the deep  
skillet and the sweet smell of tobacco. Mulder was in the other room,  
watching "Animal Planet."

"Okay, now what?" Scully asked, wiping her hands on a tattered  
kitchen towel on the counter.

Albert pushed a greased bowl toward her. "Put it in there and turn  
it over so the top gets some grease on it, as well. Then cover it  
until it doubles in size."

Scully did as she was told, taking great care with the dough. Albert  
watched her hands as she worked, the left trembling as it held the  
heavy mound and turned it over.

She pulled the hand back, squeezed it into a fist for a second and  
the trembling subsided slightly. Then she reached back into the bowl  
and finished, covering it.

He was glad she wasn't as self-conscious about the injury now. She  
seemed to have come to some kind of acceptance of it, some peace.

As she had about many things, he thought, and he smiled wider around  
the pipe as she wiped her hands again. She looked at him and returned  
it, looking down almost shyly.

"A natural," he said. "You sure you are not part Navajo somewhere in  
all that Irish?" He winked at her, and it teased a chuckle from her.

"Pretty sure," she said.

Mulder came in now, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He  
looked better than Hosteen had seen him look yet, though there was  
something bothering the younger man. He could see that.

"Something is on your mind, Agent Mulder," he said, took a puff of  
smoke into his mouth and let it out. He watched Scully look into  
Mulder's face, then down again.

Mulder stood beside her now, looking down at what she was doing.  
"Yes," he said softly, and he and Scully exchanged glances again.  
"There's is something on my mind."

Hosteen nodded, gnawing on the pipe end. "You are wondering if you  
should go home or not," he said matter-of-factly, and both agents  
looked up at him in surprise.

"Yes," Mulder replied, snapping out of it.

"Hm," Albert said. "Agent Scully wishes to go back, but you are not  
so certain."

Scully shook her head, stifling a small smile as Mulder continued to  
look surprised. The poor man was not used to this kind of talk,  
Albert recalled. Scully had had so many nights of him, when he  
guessed things right it no longer phased her or made her feel  
exposed.

Mulder was blushing on his newly shaven face. "Yes," he said again.

Albert took his pipe out of his mouth, studied it. "Would you like  
to hear my thoughts?" he said.

"I would," Mulder said after a beat. He looked grimly serious.  
Scully glanced at him again.

"You were right to run all the time you did before you came here,"  
Hosteen said, choosing his words with care. "So much was unknown,  
both outside of you...and between you, if you do not mind me saying  
so."

Mulder nodded, accepting what he said and urging him to continue.

"Many things, I think, are known now," Hosteen continued, looking at  
Scully and then back into Mulder's face. "What they could do to you  
with these charges against you cannot touch what is most important  
now. You have strength now that you did not have before. Anyone who  
looks at you will see that. That is how I see things."

Mulder looked at him. "I don't think that will be enough to stop  
these charges against me, Mr. Hosteen," he said. "Or enough to  
protect Scully from this man who wants to kill her."

"You can face these charges, Agent Mulder. They are lies. They will  
show themselves as lies in the face of who you are. Especially who  
you are now." He looked at Scully. "And Agent Scully...she can  
protect herself. And with your help, she is doubly safe."

Mulder shook his head, leaned against the countertop.

"Listen to him, Mulder," Scully said softly, looking into his face.

"If you stay out here, they will find you eventually. Even here." He  
gestured around him. "And this man Skinner at the FBI...he will do  
what he can. And you are safer with his people around you than you  
are with me or Victor or, if you leave here, no one at all."

Mulder looked down at his feet, and Hosteen could feel him relenting.

"Check your dough," he said to Scully, striking her from where she  
was watching Mulder's face. She lifted the cover off the bowl, and  
Hosteen nodded.

"It is ready," he said. "Now take it out and pull it half, then pull  
it into eight parts and make them into balls."

Scully busied herself doing what he said, Mulder still quiet beside  
her, deep in thought.

"Now take one and flatten it out with your hands," Albert instructed  
softly when she was done. "Then poke a hole in the middle of it or  
the center will not cook."

Scully did as she was told, pulling the ball flat, poking a large  
hole in it. She turned to the pan of fat on the stove, and Hosteen  
nodded.

"About a minute on each side," he said, and Scully carefully placed  
the dough down into the pan. It began to sizzle instantly. Scully  
stood over it as though she were standing guard.

Finally, Mulder looked at Hosteen, and Hosteen nodded to him. Mulder  
nodded back after a beat.

"All right," he said, and Scully looked back over her shoulder at  
him. Hosteen watched the look they exchanged, the warmth and the  
worry in it. "We'll both go home."

"You have to be sure, Mulder," Scully said softly.

He nodded. "I am sure."

Scully smiled at him faintly. Hosteen noted the look in her eyes, at  
what passed between them.

"Turn it over," he said softly, and Scully returned her attention to  
the pan, turned the dough over with a spatula. Fat crackled.

Mulder came forward and stood beside her at the stove but did not  
touch her.

They were in a place where they could touch without touching, he  
noted with something like pride. They'd come so far from the two  
people he'd seen get out of the truck that day. Very far indeed.

"Is it done?" Scully asked, looking at him. Hosteen stood and went  
to the pan now on her other side.

He noted the gold of the bread, the rich smell, the center a creamy  
white but cooked through.

"Perfect," he said, smiled broadly, and Scully pulled the fry bread  
out and laid it on the paper towel on the plate he'd placed there on  
the stove, the paper darkening beneath it.

With that, Scully turned back to the counter, began pulling the next  
ball of dough flat with her palms.

Hosteen watched her, then Mulder as the younger man reached down to  
the disc of bread, carefully pulled off a hot edge and brought it to  
his mouth to taste.

 

**********

 

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION  
8:47 p.m.

 

The sound of dripping water seemed to echo around her, a drop at a  
time from the sink above her head. She lay on her stomach, her cheek  
against the cold tile floor, cooling the sweat on her pale face. Her  
arms were tied behind her back and her shoulders ached from the  
strain of it.

She tried to ignore the drops of water tapping at the sink,  
listening instead to the silence in between them, the house outside  
the closed door quiet.

Too quiet.

Her breath came fast as she thought about it, her eyes closing tight.

"No..." she whispered, her face clenching to tears again.

Someone was walking around outside the door, down the long wooden  
hallway that led to bedrooms and the large living room on the other  
side of them. The person stopped at the door, stood still to listen.

She didn't make a sound, not even daring to breathe while whomever  
it was stood there.

Then the footsteps moved on.

Mae took a deep breath as they receded. She didn't know if it had  
been Owen or not, but she doubted it was him. He'd thrown her into  
the bathroom, crushing her to her knees as a round of vomiting had  
struck her, pushing her head toward the toilet in disgust and then  
slamming the door behind him.

Now she lay still, the nausea passing from her, though her stomach  
was still clenched, but this time from her helplessness and fear.

Owen had sent Sean out with the taller of the two men, out into the  
forests around the lodge-like house they'd come to. The house was  
dark cedar, hidden in the dense woods up on the hillside, far off the  
main road.

She was glad he'd sent Sean out, but feared what it meant. What Owen  
was trying to shelter his son from hearing or seeing.

Mae had tried to reassure Sean as he'd stood in the doorway, the  
tall man's hand on his small shoulder. The other man -- the one who  
didn't look quite human to her -- was sitting in the corner of the  
room like a guard dog waiting to be called.

"It's all right, Sean," she'd said, trying to keep the shake out of  
her voice. "We'll be right here when you get back."

She'd looked at Owen then, who stared back at her with his pale  
face, still as wax.

She'd looked at Joe, seated on the bed in the large room. Neither of  
them were bound at that point, Owen's gun tucked away for the moment.

The blood had long-since dried on Joe's face.

"We'll be right here," Joe had said to Sean, as well, and Owen  
glared at him, took a step closer to him but did nothing in Sean's  
presence.

His restraint didn't make much difference. The boy had the back of  
his hand in his mouth and was sucking on it hard as the man led him  
away.

That's when the other man had moved and the ropes had come out. The  
silver tape.

The order for silence, the gun removed from the back of Owen's pants  
once again.

Neither of them had resisted, complying for the safety of the other.

Just as Owen had wanted.

That's when the nausea hit her, sweat beading her forehead. She'd  
swooned with it, making a sound in her throat unintentionally.

"I told you to shut the fuck up!" Owen had roared, and his hand was  
across her face again. She barely felt the sting of it, her head  
jerking to the side.

"She's going to throw up," Joe had exclaimed. "For Christ's sake,  
she can't help it!"

"Not in here you're not," Owen had snapped, and hauled her to her  
feet, hustling her out.

Now she lay there, listening. Waiting.

Water dripped into the silence, a drop at a time.

Then the screaming began.

 

***********

 

END OF CHAPTER 18b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19a.

***********

APRIL 9  
5:47 a.m.

 

Mae was dreaming troubling dreams -- Sean running out in front of  
her, laughing, across a field of flowers.

"Sean!" she called. There was fear in her voice, and she was gasping  
for air, as though she'd been running for miles. She stopped and  
leaned over, her hands on her knees as she struggled to breathe.  
Something in her belly ached, sweat beading her forehead.

Sean didn't listen, but she could hear the sounds of his laughter  
echoing towards her, too loud for how far away he was. She looked up  
and saw him going up a steep rise, the flowers up to his waist, his  
hands out to his sides as he brushed the flowers' red and yellow  
heads.

She stood and took off at a run after him again, staggering now and  
again on the uneven ground. She kept her eye on him, almost a dot in  
the distance, seemingly growing further away instead of closer as she  
ran.

She called to him again, but her voice came out a whisper. She tried  
to scream his name next, but her voice was gone. Panic overcame her  
as she felt her body finally give in to the exhaustion and the  
stabbing pain in her belly.

Labor. I'm in labor, she thought, and as she fell onto her side, her  
hands reached down and gripped the swollen mound of her abdomen, felt  
it tighten beneath her fingers.

The flowers closed in around her, leaning over, their single black-  
eyed centers staring down at her, obscuring all of the sky except for  
one small circle. Pain lurched through her again and she cried out  
with it, again no sound coming from her throat.

The flowers leaned in closer, nearly touching her body now. She  
pushed at them with her hands, willing them away.

Someone was stroking her hair, pushing it back behind her ear. A  
voice spoke her name.

Owen's voice. Something sing-songy in it as he said her name again.  
Mocking her.

Sean's laughter. Echoing.

Then turning to shrill screaming, the unmistakable terror of a child--

 

Her eyes snapped open, her breath heaving in. She was on her side,  
facing the toilet, almost pressed up against the foot of it and the  
front of the vanity. Her hands were no longer bound behind her.

And someone was behind her, stroking her hair.

"Maaaaaaae," Owen sang again.

Her hand went to her belly, felt the flatness of it. No pain. Her  
baby was all right. All right...

Owen's hand pulled on her shoulder, urging her onto her back. She  
went slowly, looked into his face. He was squatted down behind her,  
wearing a long-sleeved grey t-shirt and faded jeans, heavy boots next  
to her face. There were spatters of what looked like dried blood on  
his shirt.

He smiled at her, too wide, his teeth showing. He smoothed her hair  
down from her forehead.

"Joe?" she whispered, tears starting. "Please tell me you didn't  
kill him, Owen..."

Owen shook his head. "No, no...Joe and I just had a little...talk.  
We had to clear a few things up. About him talking to Sean. I think I  
got my point across good enough that it won't be a problem again. He  
was stubborn at first, but he saw it my way in the end."

Mae swallowed, looking at him as his hand kept petting her hair. The  
pressure of his hand increased.

"You feeling sick again?" he said, and had she not known him better,  
she would have thought he was genuinely concerned.

She shook her head. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm...I'm  
all right now, I think..."

"Good. Good." His hand stopped. "Time for us to have a little talk  
now."

Mae looked at him, at the spatters of blood, the memory of the  
screaming from the night before still fresh.

"Here," Owen said, and his eyes glinted, his smile vanishing as his  
jaw clenched. "Let me help you up then."

And he gripped a fistful of her hair and started dragging her up by  
it.

She cried out, scrambling with her hands and knees to get herself up  
and avoid the pull. He kept his fist tight in it and he pushed her  
through the open door and into the dim hallway. She whimpered as he  
guided her down the hallway by her head, but dared not reach up to  
touch his hand.

They entered the bedroom, and Mae pulled up short as she saw Joe,  
tied to a chair, his chin on his chest, unconscious. She couldn't see  
his face, but there was blood on his shirt. The shirt was wet, as was  
his hair, and the floor beneath him.

On the floor beside him, a car battery, two metal paddles on cords  
attached to it. A bucket of water with a sponge in it.

"Joe?" she called, and got no response.

Owen jerked her to the side, toward the bed, and forced her down  
onto it. She sat still, her hands out to her sides. She looked up at  
Owen, who was blocking her view of Joe now.

She stared up at him. He stared back, his arms crossed at his chest.  
No one else was in the room, the odd-looking man now gone.

"Why don't you tell me what happened in your flat that morning,  
Mae?" Owen asked softly. "I've been curious about it for some time  
now, you know."

She swallowed, said nothing.

"Oh come on now, Mae," Owen chided softly, began to pace in front of  
the bed slowly. She saw the gun jammed into the back of his pants.

"I know you waited until I was gone to meet up with the boys at the  
truck, and then you packed up Sean's things, took the gun..." He  
turned to look at her, his eyebrow raised, questioning.

"Yes," she said, looking down.

Owen turned and paced back toward her a few steps. "I'd sent John  
there on an errand. And you met him there, right?"

She hesitated, but nodded. There was no hiding from this now. And  
lying would get her nowhere, she knew. She could tell by the way he  
was talking that he'd already guessed what had happened and was  
merely doing this to intimidate her.

It was working.

He stopped in front of her, took a step closer so that he towered  
over her. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face up toward  
him.

"When exactly did you decide to kill John?"

She swallowed again. "I..." She trailed off.

His grip on her chin turned bruising now, and he jerked her hard,  
his face twisting in rage at her hesitancy.

She hurried to speak now. "I shot him because...because he was  
hurting Katherine."

Owen leaned forward, his face inches from hers. "Let's get it right  
now...her name's Dana. Dana Scully."

She nodded in his crushing grip. Tears started in her eyes, ran down  
her temples.

"He was...he was hurting Dana," she said obediently.

Owen jerked her again. "Of course he was hurting her, Mae. I sent  
him there to kill the bitch because she was a fucking FBI agent  
*spying* on us. Like I told you at my flat right before this bloody  
mess at your place happened."

She looked into his eyes. "I...couldn't let him rape her again."

Owen's eyebrows squinted down. "'Again'?" he asked.

"Yes," she said faintly.

She watched emotions cross his face. He seemed genuinely puzzled for  
a second, at a loss for words, then deeply angry. His face flushed  
red.

"It doesn't matter," he snapped, and released her chin, turning his  
back on her, his hands on his hips.

She could tell it mattered, though. It mattered quite a bit to him.

She'd always suspected that John had done what he had to Dana to get  
back at Owen in some way. That John had intended his violation of her  
to not only satisfy his own frustrated attraction and his desire to  
control her, but also to punish Owen for allowing his feelings for  
her to put a rift between he and Owen. It was the first time the two  
had fought over anything with one another in their lives.

And he did it to punish Dana for causing that. Though she'd had  
nothing to do with it at all.

Owen's reaction to this knowledge proved that John's treatment of  
Dana had indeed punished him, hurt him. Killing her was one thing.  
This was something else.

Finally, Owen turned around again, stared her down. "So you shot  
him," he said flatly, brushing the previous subject away.

"Yes," Mae said softly, staring at her feet again.

"Then you took her and Sean and ran."

She nodded.

A pause.

"Where is she, Mae?" he asked, his voice dangerous and low.

She glanced up at him. "I don't know," she said. "We split up in  
Tennessee and I have had no contact with her since."

Owen seemed to consider. "She had to be ill from the drug," he said  
finally.

Mae said nothing, kept her face down.

"Who was she with, Mae?" he asked. "I know it's a man she's with.  
Who is he?"

She hesitated, not wanting to give anything away about Dana or her  
partner. They were safer if she kept quiet--

Then something cold against her forehead, the sound of a gun being  
cocked. She raised her head slowly, hardly daring to breathe.

"Who *is* he?" he hissed. "And don't make me fucking ask you again."

She looked into Owen's eyes, pleading with them again. "He's...he's  
her partner. In the FBI."

"What's his name?" He pressed the muzzle of the pistol harder  
against her head.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry as a desert. "Mulder," she  
whispered. "His name is Mulder. I don't know his first name."

Owen seemed to consider for a beat. "Running with her like  
that...he's just her partner, you say? Nothing more?"

Mae said nothing, clenched her eyes closed as though preparing for  
the shot. Tears came down her face from beneath her lids.

A phone rang from another room.

Owen looked toward the door for a second, then back at her. On the  
third ring, the phone was picked up.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her lip trembling.

"Never mind," he said, removing the gun from her forehead. She still  
felt the coldness of it against her there. "You just answered my  
question."

**

Owen went to the door, the gun still in his hand, waiting for word  
about who was on the phone this early in the morning. It had to be  
Kingston.

He glanced over his shoulder at Mae, who was looking at Joe, every  
muscle in her body poised to move toward the poor bastard. It made  
him sick, the way she mooned over the man, and he turned his back on  
her, waiting by the doorway and staring down the hallway instead.

He pictured Mae running with Sean, running with Dana Scully. Running  
away from him. He closed his eyes as the rage seared into him, and he  
clenched his jaw hard enough to grind his teeth to powder.

Mae was a child. She always had been a child. It was this Scully who  
was at fault for this. She'd turned Mae against him, ingratiated  
herself with his sister to gain protection for herself should  
anything go wrong with her cover. That was it. She'd brainwashed Mae  
into thinking they were friends, into thinking that Dana cared about  
her in some way. And she'd talked Mae into taking Sean away from him  
because of the things he was doing that Scully knew about. The drug.  
The bombing.

Yes, that had to be it. Mae would never do this on her own. But it  
was too late to forgive her for it. He couldn't trust her any longer.  
Her loyalties were no longer a sure thing, and when that  
happened...with anyone...there was only one way to deal with it.

He would have to kill her. Pregnant or not.

He rubbed at the scar on his face, thinking.

What if this Scully *did* care for Mae? What if they *had* developed  
some sort of friendship?

He thought about this, waiting.

Scully might have taken Mae away from him. She might have won that  
round. But now, Owen had Mae...

He'd known for some time that killing Scully wouldn't be enough. He  
wanted to control her. He wanted to break her before he killed her.

His mind turned over the possibilities.

Finally, footsteps from the living room, and Lantham appeared,  
carrying a cordless phone.

"It's Kingston," he said, and handed the phone to Owen. Owen took it  
with a nod. Rudy Grey wandered in from the living room now, stood at  
the far end of the hallway.

"I hope you've got good news for me, Mr. Kingston," Curran said by  
way of greeting.

"I do," came Kingston's rough voice from the other end. "We've found  
this woman, Scully. She's staying on the Navajo Reservation outside  
Farmington, New Mexico. Not running, so she should be easy for you to  
pick up. She's with some man claiming to be her husband, but it  
should be easy to get her alone or to get him out of the way long  
enough to get her."

Curran smiled faintly, pleased.

Then a thought hatched in his mind.

"You there, Mr. Curran?" Kingston said into the silence.

"Aye, I'm here," he replied. "But there's been a change of plans.  
I'm not going to go pick her up. I'm going to stay here with Mr.  
Lantham and my family here. I'm sending your man Grey down there  
instead. I guess you'll have a few of your locals there, as well?"

"Yes," Kingston replied, and Curran could hear from his voice that  
he was wary. "I've got six or seven men standing by. We won't lose  
her this time."

"All right then," Curran said, signalling Grey forward. He came  
obediently, Lantham staring at Curran suspiciously. "Mr. Kingston,  
here's what I want you to do..."

 

*********

 

END OF CHAPTER 19a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19b.

 

************

 

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE  
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA  
11:02 a.m.

 

Paul Granger walked down the center of the hallway of the CIA  
Headquarters, heading straight from the elevator down the long  
corridor. His heels tapped on the marble floor, slightly out of  
rhythm as his still-ailing leg faltered him slightly. But his head  
was held up, his shoulders, in their black suit jacket, squared, a  
grim expression on his face.

People stared at him as he went by them. He didn't spare them a  
glance.

There was a door at the end of the corridor he was heading for.

The secretary looked up at him in surprise as he made it clear that  
he wasn't stopping at her desk.

"Agent Granger, you can't go in there right now--"

He held a hand up to silence her, the hand not holding the folder.  
The woman looked at his hand, flustered as a guinea hen as she  
scrambled to rise and block his way.

Too late. He was at the door and had it opened, the woman clucking  
after him into the dim office.

Padden sat at the end of the immense space, a man standing next to  
him behind the desk, going over something in front of them both. Both  
men looked up in surprise as Granger came in, calmly ignoring the  
woman behind him who had gotten a hand on his sleeve. He pulled his  
arm away and kept going until he stood before the desk.

He turned to the young agent leaned over the desk, Padden trying to  
wither Granger from behind his reading glasses all the while.

"I'd like you to leave, please," Granger said politely but firmly.

The agent looked from Granger to Padden and then back again.

Padden put up a hand, clearly urging the agent to stay.

"You're interrupting, Agent Granger," Padden said quietly. "I  
suggest *you're* the one who should be leaving this office."

Granger held the folder up in front of him. Padden looked at it.

"Sir," Granger said, dripping faux politeness onto the word. "I have  
something to discuss with you. Now it's your choice. We can either  
discuss it in front of these two people here," He glanced back at the  
secretary. "Or we can do it alone. It's your choice."

Padden looked at Granger's face and Granger stared back hard, not  
even blinking, the folder still held up in front of him.

Finally Padden took his glasses off and closed the file on his desk.

"Leave us," Padden said softly, and the agent came around the desk,  
and he and the secretary made their way to the door, closing it  
behind them.

Granger slowly lowered the folder, stood still in front of Padden,  
who was likewise still.

"Well?" Padden asked, finally sitting back in the chair and tossing  
his glasses onto the desk. "What is it that you find so important  
that you had to come huffing in here, Agent Granger?"

Granger looked at him, spoke quietly. "I think you know, Dr.  
Padden," he said.

"No, I don't know," Padden asserted, sounding put out now. "Why  
don't you enlighten me?"

Granger's lip curled up and he took a step toward the desk, opening  
the folder. He started to lay the color copies of the photographs of  
Mulder and Scully out in front of Padden like tarot cards.

Padden looked at the first one, then up into Granger's face. Their  
gazes hung again as Granger continued to lay them out.

"You've found them then," Padden tried, and Granger shook his head.

"No, sir, YOU found them. Quite some time ago, I hear."

Padden's face was like concrete, the wrinkles like cracks. "I don't  
know what you're talking about, Agent Granger," he said softly.

"Oh, but you do, sir," Granger said, emboldened. "You found them two  
weeks after Agent Mulder left Richmond, from what I understand, and  
have been following them ever since. Using a covert task force, I'm  
told, to monitor them until Owen Curran makes his move on Agent  
Scully so you could catch him then."

Now Padden laughed. "I don't know what you've been listening to,  
Agent Granger, but I assure you--"

"Don't," Granger interrupted, his face grim. He put a hand up.

Padden stilled, the smiling melting off his face.

"Where did you get these photos?" Padden said into the quiet that  
followed.

"You're not the only one who has secret task forces, Dr. Padden," he  
said. "And fortunately, not all of us can turn our consciences off  
while you try to kill both Mulder and Scully to cover yourself for  
your mishandling of the bombing."

"A secret task force?" Padden scoffed. "That's ridiculous." But his  
face had begun to redden.

"Is it?" Granger said calmly. "It's the only thing that makes sense,  
really. With the combined forces you've got at your disposal, it  
doesn't make sense Mulder and Scully could have stayed hidden this  
long, unless you wanted them to stay hidden. Unless you were feeding  
my task force bones every now and again to keep us going, make us  
feel like we were getting somewhere, when in fact we were chasing our  
tails the entire time. Looking for Curran, certainly, but...not  
Mulder and Scully."

Padden leaned further back in his chair. "All right, Agent Granger,  
I will admit..." He spoke slowly, carefully. "...that there are some  
aspects of this operation that you have not been privy to. This is a  
matter of national security, and some aspects have been 'eyes only.'  
And not your eyes."

Granger stood there, waiting.

Padden's face was red as a tomato now, despite his exterior calm.  
"What I'm doing isn't illegal or unethical. And if you would like to  
be part of these operations, I'm sure there's a way that can be  
arranged."

Granger just looked at him. "You want me to join your task force?  
The real one?"

Padden nodded. "You'd be an asset. I didn't think of it before, but  
I see now you're a man with a knack for finding things out. You could  
be of use to me that way. It would be wonderful for your career, I  
assure you. Quite an opportunity for advancement for a junior agent  
like yourself."

Padden smiled, and the expression looked strange on him. Like it  
didn't belong there and never had. Granger felt a chill as he looked  
at it.

"No, thank you, sir." Granger smiled as he said it.

Padden leaned forward. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear, Agent  
Granger," he said quietly. "Maybe I made that sound too much like an  
request. It's more like...an order."

"An order?" Granger repeated, his expression dead flat.

Padden picked up a pencil and started to push at a paper clip with  
it. "Yes. You know too much to be on the outside of this still."

"I *am* on the outside of this," Granger said softly. "Still."

Padden shook his head. "Let me spell it out for you," he said. "You  
have two choices. Either you join my task force, or I use what you've  
just given me to ruin your career. I can make this look any way I  
want."

Now Granger smiled.

"No, sir, you can't," he said. "For two reasons."

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out his  
badge in its leather holder. He tossed it across the desk, nearly  
hitting Padden in the chest.

"One? I quit. So you going after my career is a moot point."

Padden looked from the badge to him.

Granger shook his head. "I don't want any part of this agency  
anymore, where things like this can go on. It makes me sick."

Padden continued to stare.

"And two..." Granger gestured to the photos on the desk. "When I  
showed these to Ashcroft with Assistant Director Skinner this  
morning, he didn't seem to think what you were doing was 'legal' or  
'ethical.'"

Padden locked eyes with him. "You're bluffing," he said softly.

Granger just shook his head.

Behind him, the door opened, and Walter Skinner walked in, dressed  
in his best suit, the secretary following him, as well, to no avail.

He came forward until he stood beside Granger, glaring at Padden.  
Padden shooed the secretary off with his eyes and she went.

"Walter," Padden tried as the door closed again. "You and I have  
known of each other's work for a long time. You know the kind of man  
I am."

Granger looked at Skinner, who was still boring a hole into Padden  
with his eyes.

"Yes, Bob, I do know what kind of man you are," Skinner growled.  
"Now I do, at least." "How fucking dare you play with my agents'  
lives like this. And just to cover your own sorry ass."

His voice rose as he spoke, and he ground the words out between  
clenched teeth. Granger could see the veins standing up on Skinner's  
neck.

"Now wait just a minute," Padden said, and bolted to his feet. "You  
can't talk to me like that. Not to *me*! And you can't prove any of  
this, either! I'll make sure you can't prove it!"

Granger looked at him solemnly. "I'm wired," he said simply.

Padden looked wild-eyed now, his breath huffing slightly as he was  
stunned to silence. Granger looked back at him impassively.

"It's over, Bob," Skinner said. "All of it. Ashcroft has dropped the  
charges against Mulder and Scully. He's got someone new to look into  
now."

It was then that the phone began to ring.

Padden looked down at it as though it would bite him.

Ashcroft.

Padden knew it, too. He looked back and forth from the two men in  
front of him to the phone.

All three of them held still.

Finally, on the sixth ring, Skinner spoke, his voice low, bitter.

"Get your phone, you son-of-a-bitch."

*

They made short work of the hallway, both of them walking as fast as  
Granger's slight limp would allow, so fast that everyone stopped and  
stared at them as they passed.

"Did you really quit?" Skinner asked, glancing at him.

"Yes, sir, I did," he replied.

"You didn't have to do that, Granger," Skinner said. "This would  
have all blown over and it probably would have made your career."

They entered the elevator, Skinner waving two men off who tried to  
enter with them. The doors tapped closed and they started down.

"Like I told Padden just now," Granger said. "I don't want any part  
of this agency anymore. There are other ways to do the work that I've  
been trained to do. If this can happen once, it can happen again."

"Yes, Granger, but it can happen *anywhere,*" the other man  
responded firmly. "It's happened at the FBI. Ask Mulder and Scully."

"I'll find a place for myself, sir," Granger replied. "Don't worry  
about me. I'm doing what I feel is right. It's all I've ever wanted  
to do."

Skinner pursed his lips, blew out a breath. "Well, your place for  
right now, at least, is as a civilian consultant with the FBI. You  
packed your personal weapon?"

The elevator doors whooshed open, depositing them on the ground  
floor. They shot out into the hallway.

Granger watched the floor as he crossed over the CIA seal. He  
remembered how proud he'd been the first day he'd come into this  
building as an agent. He never thought he would leave like this, and  
so soon.

"Granger?"

He snapped out of the thoughts. "Yes," he replied. "I've packed the  
ammunition in one suitcase, the unloaded 9mm in the other, just like  
the airline specified. I've got my permit to carry it in my wallet."

"Good," Skinner said as they breezed out the glass doors. "Your  
temporary status with the FBI should keep you out of any trouble with  
that. If they give you any shit at the airport, have them call me."

"Have you figured out your plan yet?" Granger asked.

Skinner nodded. "Yes, I'll be at Justice until this thing gets  
rolling, then I'm coming your way to head up the agents in  
Albuquerque as soon as things start being dismantled here. I need to  
stay for now to make sure this doesn't get buried. Ashcroft is  
looking for a head on a platter, but this isn't going to be popular  
once it gets going. I don't want him chickenshitting or Padden  
finding a way to slither out of this."

"What about my backup?"

"I've just gotten authorization to begin mobilizing agents from  
Albuquerque and Phoenix. You should have them by morning at the  
latest. I tried calling Albert Hosteen, but there's no answer and he  
doesn't have a machine. I'll keep trying."

Granger nodded. "Since Padden doesn't know where they are, we should  
be all right until the agents get there."

Skinner checked his watch as they hit the parking lot.

"Come on," he said, quickening the pace even more. "We've got to get  
that wire off you and hurry if you're going to make these flights."

 

*************

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
5:45 p.m.

 

Mulder stood stirring the spaghetti sauce, the sun starting to go  
down out the window beside him. Scully was busy in the trailer's  
small laundry room, folding a load of wash as he cooked.

They were really going to do this, he thought, and something seized  
in his chest. They were going to go home and face this thing down.

He knew it was the right thing to do, that running was becoming too  
dangerous. But the thought of trying to defend himself against the  
charges from Padden...frankly, it scared him. He knew what could  
happen.

He looked out the window, deep in thought about it.

The truth will save you...I think it will save both of us...

He thought of his own words that Scully had given back to him,  
turning them over. He wanted to believe them.

He would believe them.

Scully entered from the hallway, dressed in a green t-shirt and  
faded jeans. Her hair was soft and lovely, pushed behind her ears.  
She looked at ease, and he was grateful for that.

They exchanged smiles as she came to stand beside him, on the side  
that Bo was not on. Scully touched the dog's head as she passed him.

"Spaghetti a la Mulder again?" she asked, and he nudged her with an  
elbow.

"You know it's really the only thing I can make that comes out  
halfway decent," he replied, and she leaned into him, stood on her  
toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"It's very good," she said. "You know I'm just teasing you."

"You'd better be or you're cooking from now on," he said, and turned  
to kiss her on the lips.

There was a knock at the door, and Bo sat up from where he was lying  
next to Mulder, his ears up and alert. Scully broke the kiss and they  
both looked toward the door.

"Mulder?" It was Victor.

Scully went to the door and opened it, let Victor in. He said hello  
to Scully, forcing a little smile. The young man looked harried or  
pissed off, Mulder noted.

"Victor, what's wrong?" Mulder asked, setting the wooden spoon down  
and wiping his hands on a towel.

Victor heaved out a breath. "Somebody left the goddamn gate open and  
all the sheep are out," he said, angry. "I know it's late, but I  
can't get hold of Keel or Henry to come help me round them up. I left  
messages, but those sheep could be on Hopi land by the time they get  
here."

"I'll help you get them in," Mulder said, looked at Scully, who  
nodded.

"I'll keep dinner warm while you do that," she said.

Mulder nodded, came forward and grabbed up his denim jacket, pulled  
it on over his white t-shirt. Then he sat, pulling on his boots.

"Thanks, man," Victor said. "I've got two horses saddled already. We  
can get them in before it gets dark with both of us doing it."

"No problem," Mulder replied, and Victor went out the front door,  
tipping his hat to Scully and smiling again as he left.

Mulder finished tying his boots, stood. Scully had withdrawn to the  
kitchen, taken up the spoon and started stirring the sauce again. Bo  
had come forward to Mulder, ready to follow him out the door.

Mulder stood and went to the door, his hand on it. Then he looked  
back at Scully for a few seconds, the way her skin looked so soft in  
the light from the window, her profile as she looked down into the  
simmering pot.

"Scully, I love you," he said, surprised by the words. He didn't  
know he was going to say them until he did.

"I love you, too," she said, still looking down as she licked her  
finger where sauce had clung.

Something tugged at him and he took a step toward her, his hand  
still on the door.

"No, I mean...I really love you." He said it solemnly, and she  
looked up at the seriousness of his tenor. Her eyes shone in the  
waning light.

"I love you, too," she said again, this time matching his tone, and  
she smiled.

He smiled back and went out the door, Bo following behind.

 

****

6:55 p.m.

 

On Chaco's back, way up on the dirt road that led out behind  
Victor's house, Mulder walked a group of straggling sheep back toward  
the house, their heavy white bodies bumping along as they mewed  
softly, the sun going down and leaving the world in a hazy bluish  
light.

Victor was behind him somewhere far off over a small hill. Mulder  
couldn't even hear him calling to his dogs anymore, or their yapping.

He yawned, angled the horse over to the side of the small herd to  
tap a lamb back into the group.

Bo panted beside him, trotting along. Mulder smiled down at him  
faintly.

He looked ahead and saw a vehicle turn up the dirt road, its  
headlights on. It looked like a large truck or a van from this  
distance, but he couldn't be sure.

Keel and Henry must have gotten the messages after all, he thought,  
tapping another animal into the fold.

The van came closer, coming neither fast or slow. Mulder paid it  
little attention as it approached.

Finally it pulled up alongside him. Two men, both smiling amiably.  
Mulder tensed up as he realized he'd never seen either of them before.

"Hey there," the driver said easily. "Where's Victor? We heard his  
sheep were out and came to help him out."

Mulder nodded back, relaxing some with that. "Yeah, he's up over the  
rise there chasing after a bunch of them. I think we've about got  
them in, though. Thanks for coming out anyway."

The man nodded. "All right then," he said, then he pointed to  
Mulder, snapped his fingers. "You're...Tim? Tim Garrett? I met you  
once before here. Staying in Larry's old trailer, right?"

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, that's right." He was perplexed a little by  
the man's statement that he'd met him before, however. Mulder never  
forgot a face. "Though I don't think we've met before, Mister...?"

"Aw, my name's not important," the man said, and his friend in the  
passenger seat laughed.

Alarm bells blared in Mulder's head.

His heels jerked into Chaco's side and he took off, going back up  
the road toward where he'd last heard Victor and leading the men away  
from the house, away from Scully.

If they didn't have her already in the back of that van, he thought  
grimly, staving off panic.

Chaco was running at full speed, but he urged her on with his heels  
and his voice.

He could hear the van coming after him, the roar of a V8. Coming  
fast, gaining.

Jerking her head to the side, Mulder pulled Chaco off the road and  
onto the open desert, hoping to slow the van down with the scrubby  
trees and brush and stones. He heard the axle protest as the vehicle  
left the road, bouncing after him, skidding around obstacles, still  
closing.

Mulder hunched down in the saddle a bit more as the horse, spooked  
now, darted around bushes, the sounds of her hooves going fast rising  
around him. He glanced back over his shoulder.

The van was there, the passenger hanging out the side window, a  
strange looking gun pointed at him.

He fired.

Mulder jerked Chaco to the side again, but too late. He saw the dart  
lodge in the horse's rump like a blue and white flag.

Fuck...

He leaned back as far as he could without falling and grasped at it,  
pulling it out and letting it drop. The van got closer.

"Come on! Come on!" Mulder chanted to the horse, digging his heels  
in again. The engine sound roared around him.

Then a stumble, the horse's head going down. Mulder was nearly  
thrown off as she staggered again, slowing, her gait unsteady.

"No!" he shouted, and the horse ground to a halt, falling forward  
onto her front knees and then tumbling onto her side, sending Mulder  
flying from the saddle.

He ducked and rolled, hitting the ground hard, scrambling.

The van was circling now as he shook his head clear, got to his feet  
and started running.

He'd never run like he ran then. His chest was thrown out in front  
of him, his legs and arms pumping fast enough to blur. Air burned in  
and out of his lungs. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground as  
he streaked along, leaping over and around things, running serpentine.

His eyes scanned the dim landscape ahead of him, desperately  
searching for somewhere to hide. Anywhere.

Goddamn the desert, he thought, the van coming closer now. He looked  
over his shoulder and saw the man out the window again, aiming...

He heard the shot, a hollow popping sound. Then the sharp pain of  
the dart striking him the back, in the soft place between his hip and  
his shoulder blade.

Reaching back, he pulled it out, yanking hard to get the long needle  
out. He dropped it and kept going.

There was a sharp rise up ahead, one that the van couldn't get up.  
He could make it...

His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth  
suddenly. A wave of nausea and dizziness struck him and he tripped,  
fell hard.

No...Can't...

He pushed hard with his hands, struggling to stand, and got to his  
feet. The world swam in colors and blurs around him, but he staggered  
forward, kept going, though he couldn't feel his feet hitting the  
ground anymore. His lids felt impossibly heavy....

The van had stopped and he heard footsteps behind him now. A lot of  
them.

Two more steps and he fell again on his chest, his hands not even  
coming up to break his fall. He couldn't control his limbs, couldn't  
control...

He saw boots around him, a circle of them.

He lurched forward, crawling now.

"No!" he shouted, but the word sounded strange to his ears, more  
like a groan than a word. His tongue wouldn't work right either.

Laughter around him as he crawled a few more feet, the men following  
him patiently. Then he collapsed, scratching up sand in his hands,  
clenching it.

A boot reached out and turned him onto his back roughly. He looked  
up into the circle of strange faces. Their mouths, their teeth  
showing as they laughed...all of it too big, swimming out of shape  
like the men were in funhouse mirrors.

He tried to reach up, his head turned at an uncomfortable angle, his  
ear almost on his shoulder. His eyes lolled and a stream of something  
warm came out of his mouth as he tried to speak again, ran down the  
side of his face.

"Christ, Sam, how much did you give him?" one of the voice said.  
"The poor bastard's drooling!" The man's voice seemed to echo,  
sounding hollow and far away.

"Shit, I don't know, Tom -- the same as I gave the goddamn horse! He  
didn't get much of it pulling it out so quick, but goddamned! Look at  
him!" There was a roar of laughter that sounded like a tape of  
laughter playing way too loud...

"Come on now, Mr. Garrett," another voice said, and then there were  
rough hands on him, pulling him up. His head swiveled on his neck as  
he struggled to look up, a man under each of his arms.

The front of his feet on the ground as they dragged him, his chin  
against his chest. He couldn't hear anything now but the faraway  
sounds of rough voices and laughter, snippets of it.

"...sonofabitch...."

"...too easy..."

"....kidding?...ran like a fucking rabbit..."

He got his head up as they reached the back of the van, the back  
doors open. Two men climbed up in front of him, swimming in his  
vision, grabbed him from the others and hauled him up. He was vaguely  
aware of his knees knocking hard against the bumper as they lifted  
him into the dark interior of the van.

"Scu..." he tried, his heartbeat fast and roaring in his ears.

Then the world went to black.

 

*********

 

END OF CHAPTER 19b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20a.

**********

7:56 p.m.

 

There was a small wind coming in off the desert as night fell heavy  
and silent. Scully stood on the porch, her hands on her hips, her  
brow knitted as she looked toward Victor Hosteen's place, watching  
for any sign of activity. She saw none, and wondered for the dozenth  
time how Mulder and Victor could still be looking for sheep with it  
being as dark as it was.

Something was prickling at the back of her mind, a nagging sense of  
concern that she tried to push down, chalking it up to paranoia.

They were safe here. They had been for weeks now. There was no  
reason to think that anything would have changed about their  
situation here.

She sighed, calming herself as she thought of this, rationalizing  
the fear away.

He'd be back any minute now, ready for the dinner she'd already made  
and left warming on the stove. He'd been hungry before he left, he'd  
said. He would be starving now.

Finally, from behind the trailer, in the dark of the desert behind  
her, she heard the bleating of sheep, the sounds of bells as the  
animals drew closer.

There he is, she thought, and went to the side of the trailer, where  
a light on a post lit up the backyard. She saw the sheep coming into  
the circle of light, waited for the sound of horse's hooves amongst  
them.

She heard none.

She stood, looking down in confusion as the sheep brushed past her  
on their way back toward Victor's place and the food there. She stood  
in a mass of them as they milled about, bumping against her as she  
held still.

"Mulder?" she called into the darkness beyond the light. No answer.

"Victor?" she tried again, and got no answer once again.

The sheep were on their own, she realized as the last of them made  
their way past the front of the trailer, nosing into everything they  
passed. They left her standing there, quiet in the buzz of the gold  
electric light.

Then another padding of footsteps and she returned her attention to  
the edge of the light.

Her heart dropped into her belly at what she saw, her eyes widening.

Bo, coming fast toward the trailer, panting as though he'd been  
running a long way. He caught sight of her and stopped, shifting from  
one foot to the other, rocking from side to side. He let out a long  
high whine as he looked at her.

"Bo?" she said faintly. It was hard to breathe suddenly.

The dog whined again, still moving from foot to foot uncertainly.

Oh God.

She went into the house quickly, found the keys to the Bronco on the  
night table in Mulder's bedroom. Then she was back outside and  
heading toward the vehicle parked on the far side of the trailer. She  
moved first at a fast walk, then broke into a run as the panic began  
to overtake her.

Her breath heaved in and out, too fast and shallow as she opened the  
door and threw herself up into the driver's seat, the engine roaring  
to life with the turning key. She slapped on the headlights and took  
off down the dirt road toward Victor's, made a right, and headed out  
into the desert on the narrow access road, bumping along, the  
headlights sending bobbing cones of light out in front of her.

She looked from side to side, searching for anything.

"Come on, come on..." she breathed. "Be here. Be out here..."

Off in the distance, off the road a good ways, she saw a pinpoint of  
light bobbing around near the ground.

A flashlight.

Without even thinking, she swerved off the road and took off across  
the desert toward it.

After a few moments, the headlights were bathing Victor and his  
horse in their white light. Victor was kneeling next to a dark shape  
on the ground and stood quickly as Scully bolted out of the truck,  
leaving it running.

"What is it?" she said in between her too-quick breaths. "Where is  
he?"

"I don't know," Victor said, his tone heavy with concern. "But I  
found Chaco, the horse he was on. She can't get up."

Scully went toward the horse now, Victor following behind her with  
the dancing beam of light.

"Here, give me your flashlight," she said quickly, and he handed it  
off. She knelt down next to the animal's head, noted the horse's slow  
breathing, the half-closed lids, the line of saliva coming from her  
mouth. She shone the flashlight in the black mare's eye, saw the  
pupil dilated impossibly large.

"She's been drugged," Scully said, again pushing down the panic.  
"Did you see anyone out here?"

Victor shook his head beside her, removed his cowboy hat. "No, no  
one. I thought I might have heard a car at some point, but I figured  
it was Keel coming to help out. I didn't pay it any mind."

"Oh God," Scully breathed, pushing her hair back from her forehead.  
"Someone's got him. Someone's taken him."

Victor put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "You don't  
know that for sure now," he said calmly. "Let's go back to the house  
and make sure he's not there, all right?"

"He's not there, Victor -- Bo came back to the trailer without him.  
Bo would never leave him if he was still here."

Victor was silent to that, and she could see his expression grow  
grim in the headlights.

"Let's just make sure," he tried again, and this time Scully nodded.

The realization of what had happened sunk into her heavy as stone.  
She blinked back tears, then rose and went back to the truck, climbed  
in and turned the car around, heading back across the desert to the  
road.

Who had him? She thought. Padden and his agents? Curran's men?

Surely not the latter, she thought, dismissing it. Why would Curran  
want to take Mulder and leave her behind, when she could have been  
taken so easily, alone in the trailer while the two men were out  
looking for the sheep?

Her mind spun with the possibilities as she bumped back onto the  
road, took off toward the house. Victor was behind her, galloping on  
his horse, keeping fairly good pace with the truck, his sheep and the  
downed mare left behind in the desert.

She rounded the corner at the house, slowed as she saw a dark car  
parked in front of Victor's house. She was about to come to a full  
stop, fear at another intruder coming over her, when Albert Hosteen  
came out the front door, one hand in his pocket. He was gesturing for  
her to come forward with the other, and she edged the Bronco in  
behind the car -- a rental, she noted -- and cut the engine.

"Is Mulder in the house?" she asked hurriedly as she hopped down  
from the truck. Hosteen looked confused.

"No, I have not seen him," he replied, his brow knitting. "Is he  
missing?"

Scully nodded. "We found his horse, drugged, in the desert."

Hosteen looked stricken. "I heard a vehicle on the road between my  
house and here, a truck by the sound of it. Something big. But I  
assumed it was Keel or Eric."

"When was this?" Scully asked.

Hosteen considered. "About thirty minutes ago, give or take."

Scully cursed under her breath, pushing at her hair again. "Who's in  
the house?" she snapped.

"A friend of yours, he says. I had him call your man Skinner before  
I would tell him where you were, let me talk to him to make sure. He  
is waiting inside."

Victor pulled his horse up, dismounted quickly. "Is he here?" he  
asked quickly.

Scully shook her head and led the two men into the house.

And was immediately confronted by Paul Granger, who stood from the  
couch as she entered. He was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt and  
a light leather jacket, his silver glasses gleaming in the overhead  
light in the living room.

"Agent Granger?" she asked, pulled up short. "What are you doing  
here? Do you know where Mulder is?"

He was taking in her appearance, forcing his face to remain neutral.  
She knew, though, that he was surprised by her thinness. She knew she  
looked very different than the last time she'd seen him.

"No, I don't know where Mulder is," he said, shaking his head. "He's  
not with you?"

"Padden must have taken him," she said, her breathing picking up  
again. Victor and Albert looked at her, then at Granger. Granger  
looked stricken.

"No, no," he said. "Padden doesn't know where you are, and plus,  
Ashcroft is on his ass now -- we've got him on the run. I don't think  
he'd risk taking Mulder now, not with everyone knowing what he's been  
doing."

"What he's been doing?" Scully repeated. "What the hell are you  
talking about?"

"He's been framing you and Mulder both, following you. He's been  
following you since you left Tennessee, basically. But that's all  
over now. The charges against you both have been dropped and an  
inquiry is underway."

"You mean we could have gone *home* already?" Scully asked, her  
voice rising. She watched Granger cringe a bit at it.

"This all only happened this morning," he said, his voice showing  
his regret. "I got here as fast as I could. I've been travelling all  
day to come help protect you until the agents from Albuquerque and  
Phoenix could get here." Granger looked down. "I'm sorry, Agent  
Scully. I really am."

Scully looked at Victor and Albert, Albert holding up a hand, urging  
her to calm. Her chest was rising and falling as though she'd been  
running, fear and rage and worry colliding in her.

"How would Curran even know about Mulder to take him?" she implored.  
"And why would he take him?"

"Perhaps he heard about Mulder from the time those men tried to take  
you before," Albert offered. "Perhaps they wanted to make it easier  
to get to you by taking him first?"

"No, they could have *had* me," she replied, coming to some  
semblance of control as she listened to Albert. "I was alone in the  
trailer when they came. They had to have known that. They wanted  
Mulder, not me."

"That doesn't make any sense," Granger said. "Unless--"

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Victor hurried to the  
kitchen to answer it, said hello into the receiver of the cordless  
phone.

"Unless what?" Scully asked, urging Granger to continue.

"Agent Scully," Victor said grimly from the kitchen. All eyes turned  
to him. He held the phone toward her. "It's for you."

Scully's blood turned to ice, and she could feel it leaving her face.

She got it now. It all made sense.

In the silence that followed Victor's statement, she made her way  
slowly to the kitchen, took the phone from Victor and placed it  
against her ear.

"Owen," she said by way of greeting.

"Dana," Curran replied, his voice smug. "I'm glad I caught you  
there. How are you then? Having a rough night now I imagine."

"Where is my partner, Owen?" she asked, forcing calm into her voice.

"On his way to me, as you've clearly guessed," Owen said. "He's  
alive." There was a pause. "For now."

Scully closed her eyes, pulled in a calming breath. "It's me you  
want, Owen. Not him."

"That's right, Dana," Owen replied, anger creeping in now. "It is  
you that I want. And I want you to come to me now. To give yourself  
up to me. I'm tired of chasing you halfway around this bloody  
country."

"I come to you and you'll let him go." She opened her eyes and put  
her hand up, halting the forward progress of Albert and Granger.  
Granger had his mouth open to protest and she shook her head, put a  
finger over her mouth.

"Yes, and not just him," Owen replied, clearly pleased. "I'll tell  
you what I'm going to do. I'll trade you four lives for your one.  
How's that for a deal for you, eh?"

"Four lives?" Scully replied. "What do you mean?"

"I've got Mae, too," Curran said softly. "And her boyfriend, some  
pathetic fuck she picked up in Mexico where I found her. I know you  
don't care much about him personally, but Mae does. And I know how  
much you and Mae care for one another."

His voice dropped to a growl. "I know you wouldn't want her to  
grieve something like that. And I know you don't want me killing her  
either, given all she's done for you, after all."

Scully breathed out, trying not to let the shaking of it be heard  
over the phone. "No," she said softly. "I wouldn't want that. Any of  
that." She paused. "But you said four lives for my one. Who's the  
fourth?" She knew it wasn't Sean.

A heavy beat of silence. "Mae's pregnant," Owen said finally.

Scully clenched her eyes closed again, frustrated tears coming now.

Mulder and Mae...and a baby now, as well. And probably the baby's  
father...

She was vaguely aware of Granger coming forward until he stood  
beside her. She opened her eyes, met his charcoal gaze. There was  
sympathy and strength in the look he gave her, and she drank it in,  
nodded to him, thanking him with her eyes in return.

"Tell me what you want me to do, Owen," she said, her voice calm,  
sure now. "I'll do whatever you ask. Just don't hurt them."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Dana," Owen replied, pleased. "That  
you'd do whatever I ask. It's about fucking time I heard that from  
you."

"Tell me," she said again, not wanting to hear him gloat.

"All right. This is what I want. There's a little town in Arizona  
called Show Low. You'll find it on the map. It's not too far from  
where you are now. Six hours. There's a motel in town called the  
Deuce of Clubs near the hospital, right on the edge of town. I want  
you to check in there tomorrow afternoon. Check in under Katherine  
Black. I'll call you there at four o'clock and tell you where I want  
you to meet me to make the exchange."

"All right," Scully replied. "I'll do that. I'll leave first thing  
in the morning."

"And Dana..." Owen's voice was soft and dangerous now. "If I see one  
fucking agent, one ANYTHING, check into that motel with you, I start  
killing, starting with your man Mulder. I've got people watching the  
motel. They'll be waiting for you to get there. If you're not alone,  
it's over. You understand?"

She swallowed. "I understand," she said quietly.

"Good. Have a safe journey tomorrow. Goodnight, Dana."

Then a click as Owen hung up.

 

************

 

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
ALDER CREEK, COLORADO  
10:30 p.m.

 

Larry Kingston made his way across the compound, the first hardy  
crickets of the spring singing in the woods around him. There was a  
thin blanket of clouds obscuring the moon and the stars, though their  
light made the sheet of vapor glow blue in the night.

The light was still on in the cabin he was approaching, and he was  
glad for that. He didn't want to wake this man Shea up if he didn't  
have to, but he didn't want to sit on what he had to say, either.

He climbed the two stairs to the door, reached out and knocked on  
the door lightly. He heard a shifting from inside, and then the door  
opened, Shea's face lit by the bluish glow in the sky and the small  
bulb on the outside of the one-room cabin.

"Mr. Kingston," Shea said, nodding amiably, a small smile on his  
face.

"Good evening, Mr. Shea," Kingston said, and reached in his pocket  
for his pipe and pouch of tobacco. "I've got some news for you, if  
you're interested in hearing it. I'm sorry for the late hour and  
all."

"No, that's fine," Shea replied, and opened the door a bit wider,  
letting Kingston in. Once inside, Kingston stood in the center of the  
small room, stuffed his pipe full and, looking to Shea for approval,  
he lit the pipe up, blowing out a cloud of sweet smelling smoke.

"What have you got for me then, Mr. Kingston?" Shea asked, his hands  
in the pockets of his corduroys. The man still had his shoes on, as  
well, Kingston noted, and his light jacket over his sweatshirt. He  
always looked like he was on his way out no matter when you saw him.  
Always ready.

"I've got your Mr. Curran settled down in a cabin that belongs to  
one of my people. Down in Arizona. A little town called Show Low.  
He'll be staying put there for some time, it's looking like."

"Ah, I see," Shea said, nodding. "That's good then."

"And I'm done with my business with him, my debt to him paid as of  
tonight. So I thought I'd let you know all that."

Shea nodded again. "Business with finding these people, like you  
were saying earlier?"

Kingston nodded, gnawed on his pipe. "Yep. I got him the last one he  
wanted just a few hours ago. He's got his sister and his boy back.  
Now he's got this man he was after. God only knows what he's doing  
with them, but that was the deal I had with him. To find these folks,  
and I'm done it now. I reckon it's time to let you all handle him  
from here on out."

Shea nodded. "I appreciate what you've done, Mr. Kingston. Letting  
us know all this."

Kingston blew out a puff of smoke. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long  
to come clean with it all, but I wouldn't have felt right if I hadn't  
done what I promised the sorry sonofabitch. I know that probably  
don't make no sense to you people, but..."

"No, it makes perfect sense," Shea said quietly. "We're in the habit  
of keeping our word with the people we work with, as well. Most of  
us, that is."

Kingston nodded. "I see that now," he said. He reached into his  
pocket, drew out a sheet with writing on it. "Anyhow, here's the  
directions to where you can find him. I guess you'll be leaving in  
the morning?"

"Aye," Shea said, taking the sheet. He folded it carefully and put  
it in his pocket. "Most likely before breakfast. So I won't see you  
again, I suppose."

Kingston reached his hand out then, and Shea took it, shook it once.

"Good luck to you then, Mr. Shea. I hope you find your way back home  
soon enough."

Shea smiled. "I will do," he said. "Soon enough."

Kingston gave him a small smile in return. "Goodnight."

"Goodbye, Mr. Kingston. Many thanks again."

And Shea opened the door for him and Larry Kingston went back out  
into the night, trailing a light stream of smoke behind him in the  
dark.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 20a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20b.

 

***********

 

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
APRIL 10  
4:34 a.m.

 

Mulder...

The word seemed to echo around him, sounding like the half-whispered  
voice that persisted after dreaming, though he had not been dreaming.  
His mind was too confused for even that, lost in a darkness so  
complete he wasn't aware of his mind or his body.

Something tugged at his chest. A breath going in, burning. He let it  
out, the sound too loud, a rasp. Another tug and release.

"Mulder, wake up."

His mind latched onto the voice, somehow familiar, and he hauled  
himself up from the darkness, anchoring himself to it, forcing his  
eyes to open.

A dimly lit room, him on his back on a cold hard floor. He tried to  
reach up to touch his forehead where a pain stabbed at him, but he  
couldn't. His hands were bound in front of him with electrical tape,  
secured with rope to his legs, which were similarly restrained. He  
tugged on the rope. A good knot.

His vision blurred in and out, and he had to force his eyes to stay  
open. There was a face above him, a hand on his shoulder.

Long hair pulled back, face lost in shadows.

"Mulder? How do you feel? Can you speak to me?"

He opened his mouth to do just that, his tongue stuck to the roof of  
his mouth.

"Water..." he breathed, looking up into the face.

"I'll try," the woman said. "I'll be right back."

He closed his eyes as she rose, heard her go away, heard her speak  
softly to someone.

He drifted. Something in his back hurt like hell.

Then she was back, a hand going beneath his head and tilting it up.  
He opened his eyes as a glass was placed against his lips and he  
drank, draining the glass. He was breathing harder as she lowered his  
head back down with the utmost care.

Awareness dawned on him as he caught the woman's face in profile  
when she turned to put the glass behind her.

"Mae?" he croaked, his voice back but in disrepair.

She nodded, looking down at him. "Yes," she said softly.

"Where's Scully?" he said, looking around frantically.

"She's not here," Mae soothed. "Just stay calm. You've been through  
a lot already." She paused. "How do you feel?"

He took a quick inventory as the relief flooded him that Scully  
wasn't there.

"Druggy," he pronounced finally. He turned his head, saw a chair  
there, a heavy looking recliner. "Can you help me...help me sit up?"

Mae nodded and put her arms around his shoulders and together they  
lifted him until his back was against the front of the chair. He took  
in the room now. A large bedroom, fireplace in one wall. A large bed  
against another. There was a man tied to a chair just off to his  
right who was looking at him, his face battered, lip swollen and one  
eye swelled closed.

"Joe," the man said. "Joe Porter." He puffed out the "P" around his  
lip.

Mulder nodded to him, confused by everything he was seeing. His  
thinking was like walking on sand, each thought slipping some beneath  
him.

"Somebody...somebody chased me...I was running." The memory swam  
into focus. Running. Yes, he'd been running...the shot in his back.  
Crawling. The halo of boots on the sand.

"Aye," Mae said with sympathy. "Owen got some men to fetch you.  
You're in Arizona now. I'm not sure where. You've been here for about  
three hours."

Mulder nodded to Joe. "Who's he?" His eyes lolled and he clenched  
them, then opened them wider.

"He's..." Mae hesitated. "He's with me."

Mulder chuffed. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Joe."

"You do, too, apparently," Joe replied blithely, and Mulder chuckled  
at that.

"Touch."

He struggled to make sense of it. Owen had taken him, but not  
Scully? He could have had her so easily, her there by herself...

Then it dawned on him. He looked at Mae again now.

"Owen's luring Scully," he said, his mind catching up now and  
becoming more lucid. "He wants her to come to him. To give herself up  
to him."

"Yes," Mae replied. "He's trading our lives for hers."

Fury bloomed in him. Scully would come, he knew. She would come  
without thinking about it. Owen knew that, too. He must have surmised  
he and Scully's relationship somehow. Maybe Mae told him. Maybe she'd  
had to.

He looked at her with regret. He didn't exactly like being in his  
position right now, but he would hate like hell to be in hers.

Mae looked down as she sensed his feelings, her voice dropping to  
just above a whisper. "He might let you go, Joe go. But he's not  
going to let me go."

Mulder nodded, spoke quietly. "You're right. He's not. He wants you  
and he wants Scully. But he might use Joe and me to punish you both.  
To hurt what you care about. None of us are guaranteed a way out of  
here, no matter what Scully does."

"So he's awake," a stern voice came from the doorway, and Mulder and  
Mae both turned to see Owen standing there, leaning against the  
frame.

Mae scrambled up to her feet and withdrew to the bed, where she sat  
quickly, still now, not meeting Owen's gaze as he followed her with  
his eyes.

Mulder could feel the terror coming off her and wondered what she'd  
been through already with her brother.

Owen approached him, stood in front of him with his arms crossed  
over his chest. He smirked as Mulder looked up at him with a gaze  
cold and unafraid.

"Mr. Mulder," Owen said. "Good to see they didn't kill you with that  
tranquilizer they gave you. You weren't breathing too well when they  
brought you in, so I'm relieved you're all right."

"I'm sure," Mulder replied, his voice cracking. "I bet you were  
beside yourself."

"No, no," Owen said, his smile widening at Mulder's tone. "I'm being  
sincere, Mr. Mulder. I've got no quarrel with you. You're just a  
means to an end. I don't want to hurt anyone unnecessarily, you  
know."

Mulder glanced over at Joe. "I can see that," he said.

"Ah, that's a bit different. Joe got me pissed." He cocked his head  
as he looked at Mulder. "I'm sure you won't be doing that, will you?"

Mulder said nothing, simply stared up at Curran, who paced a few  
steps, then came back.

"Your girlfriend is coming for you," he said, clearly pleased.  
"She'll be in town tomorrow afternoon. So not to worry. You'll be  
free soon enough. You just need to hold tight until she gets here."

Mulder seethed, hated Curran for talking about Scully, hated knowing  
that Curran's using him as a lure had worked so easily.

What Scully must be going through, knowing Owen had him. And Mae. He  
knew Scully would be concerned for her, as well.

It all burned in him, and, despite his better judgement, his temper  
flared.

"You won't be rid of me that easily," he rumbled, his gaze turning  
to ice.

"What do you mean then?" Curran asked lightly. He seemed amused.

"I mean that you even touch her and I'll kill you." Mulder's eyes  
didn't waver.

Now Curran's smile melted away, his expression flattening.

"Threats from someone in your position don't hold much weight, Mr.  
Mulder," Curran said quietly. He leaned closer to Mulder's face. "And  
if I were you, I'd shut the fuck up with them, as well, before you  
end up like Joe here." He jerked his head toward Porter.

"Fuck you." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

The boot that caught him across the mouth was no surprise.

"You don't know me very well, you stupid fuck!" Curran shouted. "You  
wouldn't talk to me like that if you knew me."

"I know all about you," Mulder said, and spit blood toward Curran's  
feet. "I know about your father, how he starved himself to death and  
left you with nothing but your Cause. I know about your wife, about  
the IRA killing her. I know everything about you."

Curran's eyes turned wild and dangerous. "Where do you get off  
talking about my family like that, eh?" He reached down and grabbed  
Mulder's t-shirt collar, bunched it up, shoving his face into  
Mulder's. "Eh? Where the fuck do you get off? You don't know shit  
about me."

"Mulder, stop," Mae called from the bed. "Please stop! Don't--"

"You're so fucking predictable it's sad," Mulder said into Curran's  
face, the words tumbling from him as his voice rose. "Revenge is all  
you know. It's the only thing that makes you feel anything anymore,  
isn't it? The British took your father and the IRA took Elisa and now  
you're after Scully because she turned out to NOT be Elisa. And  
you're after Mae for feeling anything at all, aren't you? For not  
being as dead inside as you are."

Curran's hand shot up and clenched around Mulder's face, squeezing  
hard. "What are you, Sigmund Fucking Freud?" he spit, enraged now as  
he pushed Mulder's face to the side hard. "Don't you say my wife's  
name again, you hear me? I don't want to hear it come out of your  
mouth again. And what's between my sister and me is none of your  
fucking business!"

He bolted up and his foot was out again, this time catching Mulder  
in the belly before Mulder could react at all. He hunched, coughing,  
unable to breath for a few seconds.

Next his face, the side of his head, across his mouth again. A  
flurry of strikes as Curran's rage boiled out of control.

Finally Curran stepped back, his breath heaving.

Mulder shook his head clear, his face throbbing. When he got his  
voice back, he rasped at Curran, looking hard at him.

"You leave Scully alone, or I swear to God--"

"That's it!" Curran said, and went to the night table where a roll  
of electrical tape sat. He ripped out a length, tore it off with his  
teeth and was squatted in front of Mulder again. His hands shot out  
and pressed the tape across Mulder's bloodied mouth hard, pushing his  
head back in the process.

Mulder snapped his head back up, glared at Curran, made a loud sound  
and kicked out with his legs. Curran stood and stepped easily out of  
the way.

"I think..." Curran said, still breathing hard. He took a few more  
breaths and struggled for calm, pushing his hair off his forehead. "I  
think we've all heard enough from you, Mr. Mulder." His voice was  
even now, strangely quiet.

He turned, going toward the door, where an odd-looking man had been  
standing all this time, watching the proceedings without interest.

"You keep watching them," Curran said to the man. "I'm going to lie  
down for a little while."

"All right, Mr. Curran," the man said dumbly.

Curran turned to Mae. "You take that tape off and I'll put it on  
you," he said, pointing at her. Mae nodded mutely, looked away.

Curran turned back toward Mulder, hatred clearly burning in his eyes.

Mulder gave him the look right back until Curran turned and left the  
room.

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
5:20 a.m.

 

Scully pulled the last load of laundry from the dryer, bunching the  
jumble of she and Mulder's clothes into a basket, then hefted it and  
quietly took it into the bedroom. Their suitcases were open on the  
bed, which was still made. She hadn't been in it all night.

She dumped the clothes and started folding them, putting them in  
their respective suitcases with care.

She didn't know why she was doing this. She shook her head at the  
sight she must present, but couldn't keep her hands from moving.

Perhaps it was simply the need to do something productive to make up  
for the sleepless night. Perhaps it was to prepare to leave this  
place, in preparation for the actual leaving she would be doing soon.

And there was something else, as well, some small way it made her  
feel like she was doing something for Mulder, gathering his things so  
they would be ready for him when he was with her again.

His t-shirts, jeans, boxers. All folded neatly and placed just so.  
She did it as though her care would somehow make a difference. In  
something.

She finished with his suitcase, went into the other room to the  
closet, pulled out shoes, then his thick garment bag and carried both  
into the other room, tossing them on the bed. The shoes she placed in  
a zippered side of the suitcase, then closed the bag, his toiletries  
bag tucked in beside the clothes.

Then her eyes went to the garment bag, which clearly hadn't been  
opened since their arrival here. In fact, it had only been opened a  
few times since they'd left Tennessee, and then only for Scully to  
draw out his dress shirts to wear over her tank tops as the desert  
got warmer and she got thinner, needing something to hide within.

She reached down and unzipped the bag's long front, found his white  
shirt there on top. She pulled it off its hanger and put it on over  
her white t-shirt without another thought, rolling the sleeves and  
tying the tails in a knot at her waist. Then she reached in further,  
pushing the shirts to the side until she revealed one his dark suits,  
the jacket cradling a collection of multicolored ties.

She fingered a black silk one that was covered with tiny olives. She  
remembered a day in the basement office, on their way to a chewing  
out by Skinner, when she'd reached up and tightened the knot where  
he'd loosened it, smoothed it down. She'd given him a tiny smile as  
she tucked the report under her arm and squeezed his hand just before  
they'd opened the door and set out the face the music together.

The memory made her smile, but it also brought the threat of tears.

Her eyes went back to the dark suit, the dream coming back to her.  
Him at the airport, the suit hanging on him perfectly...

She pushed the dread away, rearranged the shirts and zipped the bag  
closed once again.

Around her, the house was silent, though it was full. Albert Hosteen  
and Granger had sacked out in the living room in on the couch and  
chair, just in case the men returned for her. Victor, she knew, had  
stayed up most of the night, coming in every now and again for  
coffee, carrying his shotgun. He'd prowled the property like a guard  
dog.

Albert had gone to bed around one, falling asleep in the recliner.  
He'd been mostly silent, watching her move around the house and argue  
with Granger. Granger had wanted her to stay and wait for the agents,  
tangled in red tape, who would be arriving in the morning as Skinner  
had assured him before he left D.C.

"Granger, I told you what Curran said," she'd insisted, losing her  
patience. "I have to go alone. Any sign of something suspicious and  
I'm endangering Mulder's lives and the lives of the others. Don't you  
understand that?"

"Does that mean you're not even going to let *me* go with you?"  
Granger had persisted, following her into the kitchen where she'd  
rinsed the plates from their late dinner -- she and Mulder's dinner --  
that she'd fed to the men.

She'd turned on the water hard, plates clattering. "Yes."

"Agent Scully, for God's sake, you can't--"

"I'm not risking their lives. Bring the agents to Snowflake or  
Shumway and wait for word from Mulder or me there."

"That's insane!" Granger had blustered, gesturing toward her in  
frustration. "You can't risk your life like this. I won't let--"

"I don't want to talk about it any more," she'd snapped then, and  
Granger had bitten off what he was going to say, turned and huffed  
into the living room, sitting down on the couch and pretending to  
watch the fuzzy rerun of M*A*S*H on the television.

Scully had turned to gather more dishes from the counter behind her  
and saw Albert Hosteen watching her, his pipe in the corner of his  
mouth, his expression serious. When he saw her looking at him, he  
waited a beat, his eyes meeting hers, then returned his attention to  
the television. He hadn't said another word for the rest of the  
night.

Scully reached down onto the bed now, lifted her Sig. She checked  
the clip, slapped it home, then put it beneath her shirt in the  
holster there. Next she picked up Mulder's gun, identical to her own,  
and slipped into the front waistband of her jeans, the dress shirt  
obscuring both weapons.

Then she turned to Mulder's ankle holster, the pistol snug in it.  
She put a foot up on the bed, pulled up her jeans and tried to put  
the holster on. Even in its last holes, it hung on her, and she  
cursed beneath her breath.

There had been some electrical tape on the shelf in the laundry  
room. She went to fetch it.

And met Granger in the hallway, still in his black t-shirt and jeans  
from the night before, his eyes red.

"Agent Scully," he began.

"I'm not going to argue with you anymore, Granger," she said  
tiredly, brushed past him to the laundry room. He held his ground as  
she got the tape and went back into the bedroom. Then she heard him  
in the doorway behind her.

"Can I just ask one question?" His voice was quiet. Even. No longer  
exasperated as it had been the night before.

"Sure," she said, resigned, as she put her foot up on the bed again,  
tore off a length of the silver tape, biting it to tear it. Then she  
started winding the length of it around the hard form of the holster,  
securing it to her calf, the gun on the inside of her left leg where  
her right hand could reach it easily.

"Why are you going to do this?" Granger asked softly.

She turned and looked at him like he'd grown another head.

"Why the hell do you think I'm going, Granger? I'm going to get  
Mulder. And the other people involved in this thing."

"I know that," he said, not taking the bait of her tone. "I  
mean...are you going to try and fight Curran or are you going to give  
yourself up to him?"

She turned back to her leg, pressing down the tape. She tore off  
another piece and repeated the action. "I'm going to do whatever it  
takes to free him. To free all of them."

"So you *are* going to turn yourself over," Granger said. "Well,  
that clears a lot up right there."

"I don't know what you mean," Scully replied, not looking back at  
him.

"I was just trying to figure out why you don't want me to come with  
you," he said, his tone as though he were thinking aloud. "Why you  
won't even allow that. It's because you're going to sacrifice  
yourself. You don't want to fight him."

"Thank you for the profile, Granger," Scully said under her breath,  
getting ticked now. "But I do want to fight him. I don't usually go  
around putting industrial tape on my legs if I'm planning on walking  
into the slaughter."

"You can't beat him on your own," he replied, and she pushed her  
jeans leg down and turned to him now. He didn't flinch from the look  
she gave him. "You know you can't. You can't negotiate with him --  
he's too crazy and filled with hatred for that -- and you can't take  
him out while he's got three hostages and God only knows how many  
people helping him with this."

"I'll cross that one when I come to it," she said, dismissing him.  
She started toward the door and he wouldn't budge. She looked up at  
him, angry now.

"You can't cross it," he said quickly. "He'll kill you. He'll  
probably kill all of you. I doubt he intends to let Mae go, for  
starters. He's bluffing you, using these people to draw you in, to  
make you helpless. And if you go alone you're letting him win  
already."

She looked down, said nothing for a long moment. Then she met his  
gaze again, her frustration and sadness rimming her eyes with tears.  
She held them back. "I won't risk his life unnecessarily," she said,  
almost keeping the tremor out of her voice.

"Curran doesn't have to know I'm there," Granger said firmly. "We  
can take two cars. I'll come later in the day, after I scramble the  
agents to one of those towns you mentioned last night. I'll check  
into the motel and no one will know we're together. You can call me  
and I'll follow you to the exchange place. He won't know about me,  
and that will give us an edge."

She shook her head, looked to the side, thinking.

Some part of her knew he was right. She *was* willing to sacrifice  
herself, to walk into Curran's grasp, in necessary, to free Mulder  
and the others. She owed Mae her life, after all. And with the baby,  
the stakes were doubly high.

She knew she couldn't really fight him. At the bottom of all her  
bravado, she knew that was true.

Now she returned her gaze to Granger's earnest face.

"You *need* me on this," he said quietly. "I understand you not  
wanting the agents swarming all over a town that size, but you need  
someone. And I'm all you've got."

That teased a smile from her, which faded the instant it curled her  
lips. "You're a lot," she said softly.

She paused for a long moment, warring with herself. Then she nodded.

"All right," she said. "But you can't tell Skinner where we're  
going. He would insist on a full-scale extraction on this, and we  
can't have that. It's better that he not know where we are or he  
might try it anyway."

Granger cringed. "He'll have both our asses for that," he said, and  
Scully nodded.

"I know," she said. "I'll find a way to make him understand. When  
this is over and Mulder's back safe."

Granger nodded, though she could tell he had some doubts. About all  
of this. She did, as well. So much was unknown, like a game they were  
playing where they didn't know all the rules. But the rules they did  
know they would have to follow.

She went back to the bed, hefted two of the suitcases and came  
forward again. This time, Granger stepped back to allow her to enter  
the hallway, and they both turned to see Albert Hosteen standing  
there, Bo sitting beside him as though they'd been there for some  
time.

"You are going together then," Hosteen said, and Scully nodded. It  
didn't surprise her he'd heard everything they'd said.

"Yes," she said quietly. Beside her, Granger nodded, reached down to  
take one of the suitcases out of her hand. She allowed it.

"That's good," Albert said. "I was afraid you would be so stubborn  
you would go alone. You are as stubborn as Agent Mulder that way. As  
stubborn as me." He winked, lightening the mood. Scully smiled,  
looked down.

"Yes, I am, I suppose." She gestured to Bo. "I see you've got a new  
friend."

Albert shook his head, made no move to touch the dog. "No," he said.  
"He has been outside since I woke up, looking for Agent Mulder. He is  
Agent Mulder's dog now."

The thought made the tears come again, and she blinked them back,  
finally reached up and rubbed at her eyes.

"When you find Agent Mulder," Hosteen said gently. "When he is free  
again, you call me and I will bring Bo and give him back to him."

Scully nodded, and a tear did fall now. She wiped it away, and felt  
the warm weight of Granger's hand on her shoulder.

"All right," she said, nodded, moved away from the two men and  
headed toward the front door.

She stood for a long moment on the front porch, gathering herself,  
looking out over the horizon.

The tears receded and something harder settled over her, something  
cold and determined and welcome.

Then she went to the Bronco, waiting by the side of the house, as  
the sun began to rise.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 20b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21.


	6. Chapter 6

**********

HIGHWAY 77  
NORTH OF SNOWFLAKE, ARIZONA  
11:35 a.m.

 

There wasn't a break in her expression until she saw the signs for  
Snowflake, five hours into her drive from Two Grey Hills. She'd held  
the emotions at bay for all that time as she'd angled the Bronco down  
the narrow two-lanes in New Mexico, through western Arizona, then  
south, weaving her way through the rising mountain roads, the tan  
desert giving way to Ponderosa pines and green.

But when Scully saw the signs for Snowflake, her eyes filled with  
tears.

This was where they had stopped after the first month of running,  
Mulder insisting on the break because of her lingering illness from  
the drug and the holdover of her headaches and weakness from the  
concussion she'd suffered at Fagan's hands.

She's been so weak that month, at first unable to even walk without  
his help.

She could still remember rubbing her cheek against his belly in the  
lodge where they'd stayed in Snowflake. His torso was bare from where  
she'd pushed his shirt up, his hands on the sides of her head,  
gentle, his eyes on her face. If she thought about it hard enough,  
she could remember the feel of the sparse line of hair on his abdomen  
against her mouth, the smell of his warm skin.

She remembered how helpless she'd felt then, how dependent.

It was in stark contrast to how she felt now. Three guns hidden in  
her clothes, her mouth a thin line, her eyes guarded by sunglasses as  
they met the road in front her.

She pushed her fingers beneath her glasses, wiped the tears roughly  
away.

She was a little more than an hour from her destination, the little  
town of Show Low on the edge of the Salt River Apache Reservation.  
She could feel herself growing more still inside as she approached  
it, seeing the first signs for the town beginning to appear on the  
road sides.

She would be there so soon. And she was ready to be there.

But ready for what?

One of two things was going to happen this day, she knew.

The first was that she would somehow find a way to free Mulder and  
the others and get away herself, as well, hopefully taking Owen out --  
killing him, if necessary -- in the process.

The other was that she would sacrifice herself for the lives of the  
others. For Mulder's life, which she would do without even thinking  
twice about it.

But also for Mae's life. The life of her lover and her unborn child.

Vague recollections gathered in her mind. Mae in the back of the  
pickup, some truckstop somewhere on the road, them running from Owen  
after Mae had killed Fagan. A cup of soup in Mae's hand, which she  
tilted to Scully's lips, making her eat something, despite the drug,  
despite her injuries.

Come on, help me now, Mae had said gently.

Then another memory. Mae dressing her in pajamas in the cabin in  
Tennessee, the drug-fever raging as Mae tucked her beneath the  
covers, Mae's hand lingering, protective, on her forehead.

A cloth on her forehead in a bathtub of frigid water, Mae's voice as  
she spoke softly to Mulder....

Her eyes hardened at the memories.

She owed Mae her life. Despite how strangely and under what false  
circumstances the friendship with Mae had begun, it was a strong  
friendship nonetheless. Scully felt connected to her in some way she  
couldn't quite name.

She heaved out a breath as she thought all this, as she entered  
Snowflake. She remembered the sleepy looking lodges well, the small  
stores in the tiny town.

Her thoughts returned to Mulder. Worry filled her, concern at how  
Owen would treat him. She just hoped Mulder would keep quiet. Owen  
had no tolerance for disrespect, and Mulder could be most  
disrespectful. She didn't like the thought of the two of them  
together, especially with Owen knowing something of she and Mulder's  
affiliation, and being as vengeful as he was right now.

She pushed the worry down as best she could, considering her options  
carefully.

Owen had weaknesses, some of which centered around her, his  
attraction to her and his association of her with his wife, Elisa.  
There had to be ways to exploit those feelings, to undo him in some  
way, throw him off and give her the chance to take him out or at  
least get away once the others were freed.

Either that or the association of her with Elisa would make him  
somehow worse -- less rational, more manipulative and with more of a  
desire to control her. It was going to be one or the other.

She sighed, shaking her head at the thought.

She would do anything that could be done. Especially to protect the  
lives of the hostages. And she was ready to pay the consequences for  
what she might have to do.

Even if it meant her death.

A feeling of calm came over her with that thought. A determination  
that fought the aloneness she felt as she drove the truck filled with  
suitcases.

Nothing but the sound of the tired engine as she drove out of  
Snowflake on toward Show Low, the sound of worn tires pounding the  
road.

 

**********

INTERSTATE 40  
WEST OF HOLBROOK, ARIZONA  
11:35 a.m.

 

Paul Granger looked at the map, fumbling the unfolded thing in front  
of him as he followed the line of Interstate 40 to Holbrook. He was  
steering with his knees, looking for the number of the highway he was  
supposed to take to get to Show Low. The rental car purred along on  
the highway, the brand-new engine barely making a sound as the exits  
for Holbrook began to appear.

Finally he found it -- Highway 77, south toward Snowflake and  
Taylor. He watched for the exit and saw it coming in the distance. He  
switched lanes to take it, stuffing the map in the passenger seat.

He'd driven in silence since he'd left Albert Hosteen's house, an  
hour behind Scully on the road. He was tense, his tension beginning  
as he'd watched Scully say goodbye to Hosteen and his grandson  
Victor, Scully and the elder Hosteen's hands hanging in a long grip  
as they'd looked at each other, saying nothing but "goodbye" and the  
other's name before she'd climbed in the truck and gotten on her way.

The scene had made him uptight because there seemed to be such  
finality to it, Hosteen and Scully looking at each other as though  
they might not ever see one another again.

And that was exactly what he was afraid of.

He took the exit, going down the more narrow highway, circling the  
outskirts of the town of Holbrook and then heading out into the  
nothing beyond, the road rising onto hills in front of him.

His hand gripped the steering wheel harder as he thought of the  
conversation he'd had with Albert Hosteen before he had left himself.  
The one about what to do with the agents Skinner had sent to Two Grey  
Hills who Granger was supposed to be coordinating so that Mulder and  
Scully could be protected from any unlikely last minute strike by  
Padden and the more likely appearance of Curran and his men.

The agents would arrive in the tiny reservation town to find no one  
but an old man to greet them who would *not* be telling them where  
Granger and Mulder and Scully actually were. Instead, Hosteen would  
be sending them to Shumway, a town close to Show Low Granger had  
found the map. There, Hosteen would tell them, the agents would meet  
at the sheriff's headquarters to wait for further instructions from  
him or from Scully.

Whichever of them was alive to give the order for the agents to  
scramble to contain Curran, on the off-chance that Granger or Scully  
let him get away.

Granger shook his head, looked out the side window at the trees,  
which had recently appeared as he went up in elevation, streamed by.

Skinner was going to kill him. After all these weeks of the two of  
them working together, planning, sneaking around behind Padden's back  
to clear Mulder and Scully's names, to allow them to come in safe,  
here he was, breaking off on his own and leaving Skinner completely  
in the dark.

And just when things were looking up, too. Or had seemed to be at  
the time...

"Dammit," he said under his breath.

It was a good thing he didn't have a career to ruin anymore, he  
thought, shaking his head again. Because this wouldn't help matters  
much at all.

The picture of his father, Thomas, stiff in his Baltimore City  
Police uniform, came into his head, and he felt the nagging sense of  
shame he'd been struggling to keep at bay over his leaving the CIA.  
He wondered what his father would think of his decision to turn his  
back on a career he'd spent his life preparing for.

He knew, on the one hand, that he'd done the right thing by leaving.

But why?

Skinner was right. What had happened at the CIA could have happened -  
\- *did* happen -- anywhere. If he was going to stay in law  
enforcement at all, he ran the risk of corruption everywhere he went  
because of how easily the power that came along with it could be  
misused.

But on another, he felt he'd given up in a way, chosen NOT to fight  
that abuse of power, that he should have stayed to fight the fight.

So why had he done it?

He went around a wide bend, a sign for Snowflake, 78 miles, coming  
into view, as he pondered this.

He'd done it for Mulder and Scully, he realized. To stand with them  
against what was being done to them.

He wondered at this realization now, wondered at his sense of  
loyalty to two people he actually barely knew. Especially Scully,  
whom he'd only met a few times, and whom he'd just spent more than an  
hour with for the first time the night before.

Another memory came to him as he thought of this. His mother this  
time, chiding him for his nervousness, his shyness he'd struggled  
with throughout his life, even at the CIA before this case, even  
though he'd graduated at the top of his class in Behavioral Sciences,  
even though he was considered the best new profiler the CIA had ever  
produced.

You forget who you are, his mother had told him every time she saw  
him hiding from something, refusing to stand up for himself or  
others. She'd shake her head, cradle the back of his neck, and say it  
again.

But he knew who he was now. In fact, he'd never been more certain of  
who he was, what he believed in. And Mulder and Scully had taught him  
this, taught him his own beliefs by their treatment of him and this  
case and, most importantly, each other.

There was an honesty to them, an integrity, that went beyond what  
he'd been taught and took him to what he knew to be right.

*That* was why he'd stood with them. That was why he'd quit, in a  
kind of thanks for the knowledge he had now, the understanding of  
what was worth standing up for and what was not.

And the CIA, with all its machinations, was something that was not.

That was why he was out here, driving through the Arizona high  
country, about to risk his life to protect two people he barely knew,  
but whom he considered to be, in a strange way, friends.

He remembered who he was now. He was sure of that person, this  
person he had become.

That was what he would say to his mother when he told her about his  
leaving the Agency.

If he got the chance.

Surely that, he decided, she would understand.

 

**********

INTERSTATE 40  
PINTA, ARIZONA  
30 MILES WEST OF HOLBROOK  
11:35 a.m.

 

Jimmy Shea changed lanes around a tractor trailer, carefully  
returning to the right hand lane as he continued on his way to  
Holbrook, doing the speed limit to the number.

Almost to the turnoff, he thought, rubbing at his moustache  
absently. And the closer he came to the road that would take him to  
Show Low, this Highway 77 that would take him south through the  
mountains, the more he was certain he couldn't do what it was he was  
being asked to do.

He should just turn the truck around now, he thought. Head back to  
New York. To Ruby back home minding the house, to the shell of his  
boat there by the sea.

There was a picture of a boy in his head -- the boy on the  
motorcycle, the boy in the pub.

There was a picture of a man he'd respected more than anyone at that  
time in his life, lying in a coffin at the wake, every bone showing  
through the dead white skin, the suit looking five sizes too large  
for the corpse it encased.

And again the boy was there in his mind. Owen had stood with the men  
in the corner, ignoring his mother's grief, his sister's silence, his  
brother's prayers beside the body of his father.

Shea remembered standing there by the coffin, his hand on the  
younger James' shoulder as the young man prayed. He remembered  
brushing down Mae's unruly dark hair as he passed her, her shy smile  
through her tears, his own in return.

No, he couldn't do it.

But he had always done what they'd asked of him. It felt strange to  
even consider doing otherwise.

Perhaps if he went to Show Low and got a look at Owen, saw that he  
wasn't this mad dog the others seemed to believe he was, he could  
report back what he'd seen, that his task wasn't necessary after all.  
Maybe he'd even talk to Owen, to Mae. Find there was a perfectly  
reasonable explanation to all that had transpired. A simple  
misguidance on Owen's part, perhaps. Something that Shea could put to  
right.

Shea knew he himself had a reputation for keeping his head about  
him, coming to the right ideas about situations. Surely they would  
listen to him and this whole thing and it could be avoided.

This tragic ending that didn't have to close the story of James  
Curran and his family.

Shea sighed, sorrow settling over him like fallen leaves as the  
signs for Holbrook came into view now, as he started looking for the  
turnoff to 77 headed south.

The turn toward the one place on the earth he did not want to go.

 

*********

 

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION  
2:35 p.m.

 

Mulder was finally asleep.

His legs had been unbound to allow him a trip to the bathroom an  
hour or so before, and now he lay in a heap on the floor, curled on  
his side, his breathing slow and a little too loud through his  
swollen nose above the length of tape across his mouth and cheeks.

Owen had stayed out of the room since his run-in with Mulder early  
that morning. Mae hated that Mulder had had to take the beating he  
had. But she was grateful to him as well -- for keeping Owen away  
from the three of them for the rest of the day. His words had more  
power than he knew.

She lay on the bed facing both Mulder and Joe, who was also  
sleeping, his chin on his chest where he sat, still bound and damp,  
in the chair. She had dozed off and on herself as best she could,  
woken by bouts of vomiting earlier in the morning that had passed,  
leaving her weak and shaky. The strange looking man whom Owen  
referred to as "Rudy" had brought her some water with ice from the  
kitchen, and she was doing her best to fight off exhaustion and  
dehydration.

Were she out of this place, she would probably check herself back  
into a hospital. She felt that badly. The duress wasn't helping her  
physical state, either.

She looked at the car battery and paddles next to Joe, shuddered.

Then she was on her feet, eyeing Rudy sitting just outside the door,  
his arms crossed over his chest. He appeared to be asleep, as well.

Satisfied with that, she made her way to Joe slowly, her knees  
trembling as she walked the few steps to him.

When she reached him, she put a hand gently on his battered cheek,  
and he jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide. She covered his mouth  
to keep him from crying out.

"It's okay," she murmured, looking at Rudy to see if he'd reacted to  
the sound. He hadn't. "It's just me. I want to check you over, all  
right? That thing is designed to hurt a lot more than it's designed  
to do damage, but I want to see just the same."

"I'm all right," he replied, keeping his voice low as she knelt in  
front of him. "A few burns. I'm okay."

She pushed his shirt up, looked at his chest, the dark mottling of  
burns in the shape of the paddles there. Her hands shook as she  
traced them.

"Joe, I'm so sorry..." Tears raced down her cheeks suddenly as she  
looked at his body, then she looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"Hey," he whispered, and she looked back up at him, into his eyes,  
trying to ignore the bruising around them. "It's okay. I'm okay."

He turned his head, studied her, a concerned look on his face. She  
knew she must look terrible given his expression.

"I'm more worried about you," he said softly.

She shook her head. "God, how can you say that?" she asked. "We're  
in this because of me and--"

"No, we're in this because of your brother," he asserted. "You were  
right to take Sean and run with him. Just from the little bit I've  
seen." He paused. "He's that terrorist everyone's been looking for,  
right?"

Mae nodded. "Yes," she whispered.

"The one who bombed the embassy in Washington."

"Yes," she said again, and she met his eyes steadily again. "But  
Joe...I helped plan that bombing, too."

Joe said nothing and she pressed on quickly. "I helped buy the  
explosives. I helped with surveillance of the embassy. I'm as guilty  
for that as he is."

Still Joe said nothing. He merely looked at her, his eyes gentle and  
inquisitive. Finally he spoke.

"Why did you do it?" he asked softly.

"Because..." she began, and trailed off, her gaze going down.

"Because why?" he persisted.

She thought about that hard. Why had she done it? Did she even have  
an answer for that?

"Because Owen wanted to do it," she said finally, faintly.

"Have you always done what Owen wanted you to do?" Joe asked. He  
shifted in the chair as much as his binds would allow, leaning closer  
to her.

She nodded now without hesitation. "Yes. My whole life."

Joe nodded in return. "But something changed."

She looked down, then toward Rudy again, watching the doorway as she  
spoke. "Yes," she said softly. "I'd had enough of the killing. He  
killed my friends. He was going to kill this Agent Scully who he's  
after now. She's my friend, as well."

Joe looked at her, cocked his head. "Now you sound like the person I  
met in Mexico," he said finally. "The woman I fell in love with."

"I still have done horrible things, Joe," she said, shaking her  
head. "You can't dismiss that."

"No, I don't dismiss them," Joe replied, keeping his voice low. "I  
think they were horrible things, too, and that's something that we're  
going to have work through between us. The same way you're going to  
have to deal with some of the things *I've* done."

He looked at her until she met his eyes.

"But I'm not that person anymore, no matter what I did," he  
continued in a whisper. "And you're not that person anymore, either,  
Mae. *You* have changed. That's why your brother wants to kill us.  
You've turned your back on him and started a life without him. "

Mae nodded. "I'm the only family he has left. We've been all the  
other has had for most of our lives."

"And you don't think that could protect you?" he replied.

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I've betrayed him. And  
there's only one way he deals with betrayal."

Joe swallowed. "You don't think the baby..." He trailed off as she  
shook her head. Then he grew silent.

"He may let you go," Mae said into the quiet that followed. "He may  
let Mulder go, though with what Mulder said to him last night I'm  
wondering about that. But he will not let me go. Or Dana go. He won't  
stop until we're both dead."

"I won't let him kill you." Joe looked at her fiercely.

"I want you to get away if you can, Joe," she whispered, brushing at  
his cheek. "Promise me you'll go if he lets you. For me."

He shook his head. "I won't let him kill you, Mae. I'll die first."

She covered her face miserably, her face flushing and twisting to  
tears. She sobbed quietly, fear and frustration overcoming her.

Joe leaned closer until his forehead rested against hers. He kissed  
her, lingering there. He told her it would be all right.

"Hey."

Both Mae and Joe's faces shot toward the door, where Rudy was  
standing, his gun in his hand.

"Mr. Curran said no talking," he said, waving the gun at Mae. "Get  
back on the bed."

Mae stood, her hand lingering on Joe's leg as she composed herself  
as best she could. Then she withdrew to the bed once again.

"I won't tell him this time," Rudy said, "but next time, I will. So  
make sure there isn't a next time, all right?"

Mae nodded. "Thank you," she said, sitting on the edge of the  
mattress. She looked at Joe across the vast space between them.

Then Rudy withdrew, tucking his gun back into its holster as he  
returned to the hall.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 21a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21b.

***********

 

DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
3:25 p.m.

 

The stationery was torn-out pieces from a spiral steno notebook, the  
top edge still ragged from being ripped from the pad. Beside the  
loose pages on the desk, the cheap black ballpoint she'd borrowed  
from the front desk, a small box of envelopes, the cheapest she could  
buy at the drug store she'd passed on the way into town.

She'd been writing for hours now, her neat cursive filling page  
after yellow page. She had the television on for background noise,  
and it calmed her nerves and forced her to concentrate on the tasks  
she had at hand.

First, the letter to Skinner. Explaining what she'd done and why  
she'd done it. It was short, to the point, and, except for the last  
paragraph, all business. Only at the end did she break the formal  
tone she'd used in the explanation of Curran's demands in how she  
should go to get Mulder. Only there did she tell him how much she  
respected him and the difficult work that he did. She thanked him for  
what he had done for her and Mulder over the years, the support of  
their work on the X-Files, even when that support took the form of  
dressing downs designed to make them look more presentable to the  
higher-ups at the FBI. He'd done a lot to preserve their reputations,  
to give their work some small measure of credibility, and for that,  
she told him, she was grateful.

Next, a letter to her mother, one she hoped she would never have to  
write. She found the letter beginning by talking of memories she had  
of her childhood, fond memories, difficult ones. Things her mother  
had taught her over the years, things she had tried to emulate. She  
told her mother she hoped that she had made her proud in some small  
way with the life she had chosen to lead, with her dedication to what  
she believed.

And then, after much searching within herself, she had told her  
mother about this case, the one that very well might be her last. She  
told her everything about what happened in Richmond. Everything. Even  
the rape. She told her so that she could understand the person she  
had become now in the face of it, so her mother could know what she'd  
overcome to come to the place of strength she now stood within. It  
was the place that allowed her to take this risk for Mulder's sake  
and for the sake of the woman who had once risked everything for her.

She asked her mother not to blame Mulder for anything that might  
happen to her, for any action she might take for his sake.

Then Scully told her she loved her, and she said goodbye.

And lastly, in the final few minutes before she would take the call  
from Curran, she wrote a letter to Mulder. She guessed it could be  
considered a love letter, though there was so much sadness in it, so  
much imploring for him to understand her decision to trade her life  
for his, that most of it was hardly romantic.

She did tell him a few things, however -- how he had completed her  
life, filled a space she hadn't even known was there before she met  
him. She told him how making love with him made her feel more alive  
than she thought possible. She told him how loving him had saved her  
from the solitary, desolate parts of herself.

She apologized for the time she had not spent with him in the past  
months, the time with him and yet apart from him, for the time she  
had needed to heal but that she now wanted back. She had not known  
that time could be so short.

She stopped not when she was finished saying what she meant to say,  
but when she couldn't write any more, when the tears, which she could  
not afford to entertain at this moment, threatened to overwhelm her.

She folded the letters carefully, placed them in the small envelopes  
and addressed them each carefully, placing stamps, also purchased at  
the drugstore, in the corners after she'd closed them.

She left the return address blank.

Then she picked up her key and the envelopes and went out the door,  
walked to the office, down the long walkway in front of the other  
doors to other rooms. She chanced a look at the closed door of room  
14, the room Granger was hiding within. He'd called her room when  
he'd arrived and said nothing but that number before he hung up.

The bell on the door to the office jingled as she entered, the clerk  
on duty kicking his legs down from where they were up on the desk, a  
newspaper in his hand. He smiled to her as he stood behind the  
counter.

"Miss Black, what can I do for you?" he asked. She had never found  
out his name.

"I was wondering," she began, fingering the envelopes. "Could you  
put these in the mail for me? I'm going to be leaving early in the  
morning and won't have time to find a mailbox myself."

"Sure thing," the clerk said, smiling that same smile, wide as a  
jack-o-lantern. "I actually get off here in a few minutes, at four,  
and I go by the post office on my way home. I'll put them in then and  
they'll make the five o'clock pickup. How's that?"

She smiled in return. "That would be great, thank you. Have a good  
evening." She turned to go.

"You, too, ma'am," the man replied, and Scully went out the door,  
the bell jangling behind her.

It was warm for the time of day, and she found herself pushing up  
the sleeves to Mulder's shirt a bit higher, getting more of the thick  
air on her.

Back inside her room, she turned on the air conditioning unit, the  
ancient thing rattling to life and sending out a stream of cool stale-  
smelling air. Then she sat on the bed, the phone beside her, and  
waited.

Five minutes went by as she sat in the near-silence, the television  
burbling faintly behind the sound of the air conditioning unit.

Eight minutes.

At 4:04 the phone rang.

"Yes," she said without inflection.

"You're doing well so far, Dana," Curran replied. "Word has it you  
checked in about one and came alone. That's good. You ready to come  
get your friends then?"

"Yes," she said again, equally as flat. "Just tell me where you want  
me to go."

She could almost hear Curran smiling. "Get back on Highway 60 and  
follow it onto the reservation. About ten miles in you'll find a  
turnoff marked with a cone, a dirt road. That'll take you into one of  
the access points to a canyon. Park your car at the trailhead and  
come in on foot. There's a clearing in the middle of the canyon, and  
a wash there, I'm told it's called, a little river of a sort. Come  
from the trail to the edge of the wash and I'll be on the other side  
with your people. We'll make the exchange from there."

"Let me talk to Mulder first," she tried, and Curran chuckled.

"I put a big piece of tape over his mouth. He was giving me a good  
bit of lip earlier, the bastard. I'm not taking that tape off for  
anything. But rest assured he's alive. They all are. Whether they  
stay that way is up to you, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Scully replied evenly. "What time?"

"Be there in an hour," Curran said. "I should be all situated by  
then."

"I'm on my way," she said, and she waited for him to hang up before  
she replaced the receiver herself.

She stared at the phone for a long moment, feeling her heartbeat  
pick up. She drew in a calming breath, let it out, closing her eyes.

She would only have one chance to do this right, she thought to  
herself, her teeth gritting down.

She forced herself to even out, to take it in.

Then she picked up the phone, pulled in another long breath, and  
dialed room 14. Granger picked up on the first ring.

"He called," he said by way of greeting.

"Yes," she replied.

"Okay," Granger said, and he was breathing a little hard himself,  
she noted. "Give me the layout, and tell me what you want me to do."

 

************

UNKNOWN LOCATION  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION  
4:18 p.m.

 

Tom Lantham stood in the doorway to the bedroom with Rudy Grey, his  
gun still in its holster, his expression grim. Curran brushed past  
him and went into the room, his gun in his hand, and Lantham watched  
the woman, Mae, tense up and begin to tremble slightly at the sight  
of her brother.

He hated to see that. A pregnant lady frightened like that. He  
didn't care what she'd done.

And he had to admit that Curran made him nervous, too. The man's  
cheese had slipped off his cracker for sure, he thought, rubbing at  
his mouth absently.

He watched Curran go toward the man, Mulder, who was still sleeping  
on the floor beside the recliner, his face pale beneath the bruising  
and slack.

"Wake the fuck up," Curran spit, kicking Mulder hard in the side,  
and Mulder jerked awake instantly, though his eyes were still  
lolling. The drug that Curran had had Rudy give the poor man was  
still in him. Lantham could see it in his face.

Curran had moved past him to the other man, this man Porter, and  
began untying his hands from the back of the chair.

"Get Mulder up," Curran called over his shoulder to him and Grey,  
and Grey went forward obediently, helping Mulder into a sitting  
position and then hauling him to his feet. Mulder stood a bit  
unsteadily, his eyes, over the wide length of tape, on Curran, his  
wrists secured in front of him.

Curran was taping Porter's hands in front of him, like Mulder's, and  
he glanced at Lantham, still standing in the doorway.

"Well, don't just stand there. Go take her to the car." Curran  
nodded to Mae, who looked at Lantham, her eyes wide and pleading.

Lantham shook his head. "No," he said, and shifted against the  
doorway.

Now Curran stopped, looked back at him steadily. "What are you  
saying to me?" His voice was soft, that dangerous tone Lantham had  
grown accustomed to from him. He refused to be cowed by it, though.  
He knew Curran wouldn't risk going after him. Not with Kingston and  
the entire Sons of Liberty behind him.

"I'm saying no," Lantham repeated. "I don't know what you're  
planning to do with these people, but I don't want any part of it. I  
didn't sign on for murder on this trip. You can have all that."

Curran stood straight, facing him now. Grey was looking from Lantham  
to Curran and back again.

"You're supposed to be at my disposal, Mr. Lantham," Curran said. "I  
need help moving these people. But you help me move them into the car  
and Mr Grey and I will do the rest, if you're too squeamish. Mr. Grey  
isn't, I'm sure."

Lantham looked at Rudy, who was smiling slightly at the perceived  
compliment. The poor son-of-a-bitch was too stupid to know what  
Curran was up to, really. Rudy would simply do what he was told,  
though Lantham doubted he would actually shoot anyone.

The people in the room didn't know that, though.

And with Rudy, you never really knew.

"All right," Lantham said, returning his attention to Curran. "You  
take Mr. Grey here and I'll help you put these people in the car and  
you do what you've got to do. I'll stay here with your son. Make sure  
he stays safe while you go about your business."

"All right then," Curran replied, though Lantham could tell he  
wasn't happy with the turn of events. "Get my sister in the car."

With that, Curran hauled Porter to his feet, and Lantham went to  
Mae, took her by the arm gently. She allowed it and stood.

"Come on," he said quietly, and led her out the door, Grey hustling  
the staggering Mulder behind him, Curran behind Porter, bringing up  
the rear.

**

Outside, lying on his stomach by a tree on a small rise beside the  
house, Jimmy Shea looked down at the house through binoculars,  
looking for any sign of activity, peering in the windows with the  
curtains opened.

He saw nothing for a long moment, waited, his hand on his rifle  
there beside him on the ground.

Then, the front door opened, and he recognized Mae Curran  
immediately, though he hadn't seen her in years. She was walking  
slowly out the front door toward a large American sedan parked beside  
the house. There was a man behind her, his hand on her arm. Shea  
couldn't tell if he was armed or not, but decided he probably was.

He refocussed the binoculars on the door as another figure appeared,  
a dark-haired man, beaten about the face from the looks of him, with  
tape over his mouth and his hands taped together in front of him. He  
was being pushed along at gunpoint by a shorter, stocky man. The dark-  
haired man was unsteady on his feet, and the one with the gun kept  
having to reach out and take hold of him to keep him going in the  
right direction.

Then a fifth figure, another man Shea didn't recognize, bound the  
same way as the staggering man, but no tape over his mouth.

Then Shea saw him. Owen. A gun in his hand as he gave the man in  
front of him a shove toward the car.

They were all going somewhere, that was for certain.

Shea put the binoculars down silently, began slowly crawling  
backward away from the edge of the rise, barely rustling the ground  
as he crept back.

His truck was parked on the road, hidden off the side in view of the  
driveway. Once he knew he was concealed by the trees, he stood, slung  
the binoculars around his neck and picked up the sniper's rifle,  
heading quickly and quietly back to the truck.

 

************

 

NEAR HAWK'S EYE CANYON  
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION  
4:40 p.m.

 

Paul Granger drove his dark sedan down the dirt road, the road a  
good half a mile from the turnoff Scully was going to be taking once  
she arrived from the motel. They'd decided that he would leave 20  
minutes ahead of her, just in case she was still being watched, so  
that it would look like he was just another guest at the motel  
leaving for an early dinner or an errand.

He'd driven onto the reservation, the town of Show Low giving way to  
desolation, the long winding highway that cut through forest -- no  
houses that he could see, no stores or gas stations. Just woods.

He'd driven by the turnoff, marked by a faded orange cone, then done  
a U-turn and headed back, to another dirt road that led off in the  
same direction as the one Scully would be taking. He was glad for the  
privacy the weaving dirt road and the woods afforded.

He'd checked the map -- the canyon, Hawk's Eye, was a long one,  
stretching some five miles, gradually widening until it became Salt  
River Canyon, the wash in Hawk's Eye a small tributary to a larger  
river.

On the other side of the canyon, there was another road, with other  
entrance points. Curran would be coming from that side.

The road he was on led to a trailhead almost identical to the one  
Scully would be taking into the canyon, only this one was a bit  
further north. He would be able to pick his way through the forest to  
the place where she was meeting Curran, getting as close as he could  
without leaving the safety of the rise or the trees.

He'd still be close enough to get down to the wash if necessary.

Finally he reached the dead-end, where a small trail led into the  
woods. He stopped the car, cut the engine, then climbed out. He could  
hear water flowing somewhere in the distance.

A woodpecker tapped suddenly a tree beside him, and he jumped at the  
sudden ratchet of hollow sound, pulling his gun and pointing it  
toward the tree.

The bird was startled by the movement and stopped instantly, staring  
down at him with its bead eyes.

Granger put his hand on his forehead, pushing out a breath as he  
shook his head at himself. He felt the urge to burst into laughter,  
and barely kept it at bay.

"Shit," he said under his breath, blew out another breath.

Composing himself again, he checked his 9mm, tapped the safety off.  
Then he tucked the gun back beneath his black leather jacket in his  
shoulder holster, closed the car door quietly and headed up the road  
to the trailhead and the woods beyond.

 

*******

 

HAWK'S EYE CANYON  
SALT RIVER WASH  
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION  
4:57 p.m.

 

They were a grim procession, the two men with their hands bound  
stumbling on the uneven ground, Mae leading the way with Owen behind  
her, his gun drawn and tapping at the center of her back every now  
and then. Rudy Grey brought up the rear.

The trail began to descend a little, and Mae could hear water  
rushing ahead of them, saw a brightening in the trail, a clearing  
coming into view.

"Keep moving," Owen grunted as Mae slowed a bit, a feeling of  
intense weakness coming over her.

"Owen, I'm sick," she said under her breath, and she halted, pulling  
the line up short. She turned to her brother then, meaning to plead  
with him one last time, to try to make him stop this.

And was greeted by the pistol on the center of her forehead, his  
face clenched into a snarl.

"I. Said. Keep. Moving." His voice was monotone, devoid of anything  
even close to emotion. He pulled back the hammer on the gun, replaced  
it on her forehead. Mae froze, closing her eyes.

"Owen, please," she whispered. "Please."

She opened her eyes then and looked at Joe, who was struggling to  
keep his mouth closed, but his eyes were saucers, huge and panicked.  
Mulder's weren't much better, though his lids drooped every now and  
again as he worked at staying upright.

Owen's hand shot out and pushed her shoulder roughly, spinning her  
around. He shoved her forward, toward the sound of the water and the  
light.

Then they were in the clearing, a huge sandy expanse between the two  
sloping canyon walls. There were small groves of trees here and  
there, giving way to a wide creek, the water running white in some  
places. In others, it was deeper and glassy and black, but still  
moving swiftly.

Across the clearing, on the other side, she saw another wide opening  
in the canyon, another place where a trail came in. Owen angled her  
toward it, toward the bank, then stopped her abruptly. Her stomach  
churned, sweat beading her forehead, but she knew it was mostly her  
fear now.

Fear mixing with a sort of resignation about what was about to  
happen. To all of them.

"Put them on their knees here and here," Owen said to Rudy, pointing  
with his gun. Rudy did as he was told, pushing Joe down onto his  
knees on one side of Curran, and then placing Mulder on his on the  
other side.

Owen put a hand on Mae's shoulder and pulled her back against him,  
his chin over her shoulder, his gun pressed to the side of her head  
and an arm across her chest.

A human shield. In case Dana came armed. Which Mae knew she would.  
Mulder was too tall and too unsteady on his feet to serve the  
purpose. But Mae would be an adequate deterrent.

Mae hated knowing that. Hated being used this way. Especially since  
she knew that Owen had no intention of letting her go.

She looked down at Mulder and Joe, kneeling, their hands out in  
front of them. Mulder turned and looked back at her as though he  
wanted to say something, but the tape prevented it. Instead he  
nodded, opened his palms and lowered them to the ground.

Stay calm, he was saying. She drew in a deep breath and answered him  
with her eyes, afraid to even nod.

"Stay to the side," Curran said to Grey. "But keep your gun on these  
two. And shoot if either of them tries anything. I want them still as  
stone. Everyone understand that? No sudden movements."

Rudy withdrew, and Mae saw Joe and Mulder both nod. She bobbed her  
head once, as well, and Owen tightened his hold on her, pressing  
himself closer against her. Mae's breathing picked up as the fear  
began to overtake her.

Then they waited, watching the other side of the creek, the running  
water and Mae's breathing the only sound around them.

 

**

High on the cliffside, Jimmy Shea reached the edge, crawling on his  
belly, his rifle out before him. He had a clear view from here.  
Curran in the center, the two men on either side of him. His sister  
in front him.

And a gun to her head.

Holy Mother, Shea thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head.  
His own sister? He was using his own sister to shield him? From what?

He was bluffing. He had to be. Surely Owen wouldn't hurt Mae, he  
decided. Owen had loved his sister his whole life. They'd been nearly  
inseparable since James' death, and since the death of their older  
brother, the priest shot in the square in Belfast.

He must be using her against someone coming to meet him. A pawn in a  
game he was playing, a bit of strategy and nothing more.

But something else was in the back of his mind. A worry. Everything  
he'd been told about Owen, how he'd lost his mind, lost control.

Thinking this, Shea quietly pulled the rifle up, bracing it in his  
hands, the butt's familiar end at his shoulder. He put his eye to the  
scope, not even closing the other as he sighted through it, trying to  
get Owen's head in the crosshairs.

Mae was right there, her head right next to her brother's. Through  
the scope, he could see the terror in her eyes.

This wasn't a bluff or a game, he realized. Mae was afraid for her  
life, her skin pale as a spirit's. She was trembling faintly.

And the look on Owen's face. Hatred. Determination. Something else,  
too. Something wild and dangerous.

Not quite sane.

Shea sighed, deeply saddened.

There was movement from the other side of the canyon, which Shea  
noted from his peripheral vision. He kept his eyes on Owen though,  
who was jerking his sister closer to him, their heads pressing even  
closer together.

"No shot," Shea whispered, pursing his lips.

He kept still, the scope on both their heads now, his only movement  
his finger, edging, as if on its own accord, onto the trigger.

 

**

On the other side of the canyon, tucked in a fold of trees right at  
the edge of a slope that led to the sand of the clearing, Granger lay  
on his belly, peering from behind a tree, watching Owen with Mae and  
Mulder and a man he didn't know who he assumed to be Mae's lover.  
They were all arranged around Owen like chess pieces, the two men  
looking battered and worn.

Mulder especially. He looked like he was having a hard time even  
remaining upright. It worried Granger, first for his well-being in  
general, and second, because it appeared Mulder wouldn't be able to  
do much to help himself escape if the opportunity arose.

But there were only two of them, Granger thought, taking it all in,  
his pistol in front of him. Owen and the man off to the side, who had  
his gun pointed at Mulder, with a clear shot at the other man, as  
well.

And Owen had Mae up against him, keeping him from having any sort of  
shot without endangering her.

Then, movement off to his left.

Scully.

 

**

Scully walked slowly into the clearing, onto the sand from the dirt  
trail and saw the scene before her as soon as she entered it. Owen  
watching her from over Mae's shoulder, Mulder and another man -- the  
father of Mae's child -- kneeling in front of him, on either side.  
The man was looking at Scully, wary and curious.

She met Mulder's gaze as she kept her slow pace toward the creek  
that separated them. He was shaking his head almost unperceptively,  
his eyes darting to the side toward Owen.

Don't trust him, he was saying. Don't believe him.

"Stop," Owen said, his voice echoing in the canyon.

Scully halted instantly, about ten feet from the edge of the creek.  
She kept her hands to the sides, stood still. Owen looked at her for  
a long moment in the silence that followed.

"Dana, the months have been hard, I see," he called across the  
creek. "You don't quite look like yourself anymore."

Scully said nothing, only looked at him, looked at Mae, whose eyes  
were more afraid than anything she'd ever seen. She tried to reassure  
Mae with her eyes, but Mae did not break her gaze, not even to blink.

The warning in them was as clear as it had been in Mulder's.

Owen seemed displeased by her silence, his expression hardening even  
more.

"How about you take that shirt off you're wearing?" Owen said. "The  
top one."

Scully stood and stared at him for a few seconds. Then Owen jerked  
Mae backward hard, pressed the gun against her head harder. Tears  
started down Mae's cheeks, her lip trembling.

"Don't make me fucking tell you anything twice," Owen warned,  
looking at the men, then back up into Scully's face. "For any of  
their sakes."

Scully swallowed, looked at Mulder again, his face battered, blood  
staining the tape over his mouth. His eyes did not move from her  
face.

She remained silent, reached up and began to undo the knot at her  
waist.

"Slow, Dana," Owen said. "Do it slow. I don't want any sudden  
movements of you going for the gun I know you've got hidden  
underneath there."

Scully slowed her movements down, opening up the shirt's tails. Then  
she reached up and began undoing the buttons one at a time until the  
front was open, exposing the thin white t-shirt underneath. She  
peeled out of the shirt and let it drop to the ground beside her.

Her gun was clearly visible in its holster now.

"Take that thing out and throw it in the creek," Owen called. "I  
want to be able to count the hairs on your hand while you do it."

Scully reached for it and lifted the Sig out, holding it for a  
second. Then she tossed it the few feet to the creek. It landed in  
the black water and disappeared.

"Now put your hands up and turn around," Owen said, and Scully  
swallowed again, raised her arms and did as she was told.

She knew what Owen would see. Mulder's gun in the back of her pants,  
the butt of it protruding from above her belt.

"Take that one out, too," he called. "And do the same thing with it."

Scully reached behind her, drew it out, and turned back around,  
tossing it into the water, as well.

"Any other surprises in those clothes of yours?" Owen asked.

She shook her head.

"That's good," Owen said.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Owen's eyes on Scully's.  
Scully didn't flinch from his intense gaze, from the hatred burning  
in it.

"Aren't you going to say anything to me?" Owen asked, tightening his  
hold on Mae even further.

Scully shifted her weight, lowered her hands. "You have me now," she  
said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rushing  
water. "It's time to let them go."

"All of them?" Owen said, and he smiled, showing his teeth.

"That was the deal," Scully said, keeping her voice composed, though  
she didn't like the turn in the conversation. "Me for all of them.  
Send them over and I'll come when they're all on this side."

Owen levelled his gaze even more at her. "Think hard about that,  
Dana," he said. "Think hard. Because what John Fagan did to you is  
nothing compared to what you're going to go through with me before  
I'm finished with you."

Scully felt a flush come up on her cheeks at the mention of the  
rape, but her chin lifted up defiantly, as well, her eyes not leaving  
Owen's.

She heard Mulder make a sound from behind his tape, turn to Owen,  
who spared him a glance and a smirk before returning his eyes to  
Scully's.

"How was that, anyway?" Owen continued conversationally. "Was it  
*good* for you, Dana? Because I'll be better, I promise."

Mulder made another sound, clearly a curse, digging up sand with his  
hands. Owen looked at him again, then back up at Scully. He laughed,  
and it echoed off the canyon walls.

"Send them over," she said, refusing to take the bait. Mulder's eyes  
were on her again, his head shaking. She nodded to him once.

Yes, I will do this, she said across the space between them. I will.

Owen seemed to consider that for a moment, the smile vanishing from  
his face. Scully realized she was disappointing him by not playing  
his game.

A dangerous strategy, she knew.

"I tell you what," Owen countered. "I'll give you a free one. I'll  
send this pathetic fuck Joe Porter over there to you. I don't have  
any real interest in him anyway, even though he did knock up my  
sister and I should kill him for that."

Porter looked at Scully, then at Owen, then back at Scully.

"All right," Scully said evenly. "Send him over."

Owen looked down at Porter. "Get up and walk over there."

The man was looking at Mae, Scully noted, and Mae at him.

"Go, Joe," Mae implored. "I'll be all right. Just go."

Again the man hesitated.

"Get up and fucking go or I'll kill her right here!" Owen roared,  
and Joe scrambled to his feet then as Mae cried out from another hard  
jerk.

"NOW!" The word tore off the canyon around them.

"Okay..." Porter said. "Just don't hurt her..."

And with that, he turned and went to the bank, then into the water,  
sloshing up to his knees as he stumbled, off balance with his hands  
bound, along the bottom toward where Scully stood.

Once on the other side of the bank, Scully looked at him.

"Get behind me," she murmured, and Porter nodded and did as he was  
told.

Scully returned her attention to Owen. "Mulder and Mae," she said,  
her voice flat and calm.

Now Owen smiled, and Scully grew cold with it.

Here it comes, she thought.

"Choose," he said, the smile on his face growing wider.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 21b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21c.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21c.

 

**

"Oh fuck," Granger whispered from behind the tree. He peered around,  
praying for some movement, for a shot. Anything.

He was going to have to do something. He knew that now. No matter  
what it took. Scully still had the gun at her leg. He needed to give  
her a chance to get to it.

But with Mae in front of Curran like that...

"Fuck," he hissed again beneath his breath.

**

"What?" Scully's heart filled with iron and plummeted to her  
stomach, and for the first time panic began to crawl up her.

"I said 'choose,'" Owen said, nodding first to Mulder, then pushing  
at Mae's head with the muzzle of the gun. "My sister and her baby, or  
your boyfriend there. You only get one of them. The other one dies  
right here as soon as the other one goes to your side of the water."

"That wasn't our agreement," Scully said, forcing her voice to  
steady.

"I changed my mind," Owen said, the smile, like quicksilver, gone  
and replaced with grit teeth. "Now hurry it up and pick. My sister  
who saved your life by killing *my* friend and the little bastard  
she's carrying or your mouthy fucking boyfriend. PICK!"

Scully looked from one to the other. Mulder was shaking his head  
again vigorously, making sounds from beneath the tape.

"Dana, pick Mulder," Mae said calmly.

"Shut the fuck up!" Owen screamed, and got his hand around her  
throat.

"He's going to kill me no matter--" Her voice strained from his hand  
around her throat.

Scully looked from one to the other, and frustrated tears rimmed her  
eyes.

She couldn't choose that easily. Mulder wouldn't want anyone dying  
for his sake, and it wasn't just Mae -- it was her baby, as well.

There had to be a way to save them, she thought, desperate.

Mae and her baby and Mulder.

There had to be a way...

 

**

Jimmy Shea shook his head, hearing all this. His sister *pregnant*  
and him going to kill her like this.

The boy on the motorcycle.

The boy in the pub.

James Curran laughing.

Mae's shy smile at the wake.

Shea closed his eyes, sent up a prayer.

God help me, he implored.

James, he thought. Forgive me.

He looked through the scope, and this time he did close the other eye.

 

**

"Do...it..." Mae rasped, and Owen squeezed down on her throat  
harder. She tried to cough, clearly unable to breathe.

"ALL RIGHT!" Scully screamed. "All right, Owen! Just stop it!"

She knew Mae was right. Owen would never let Mae go. And he *would*  
kill her.

The two women locked eyes. Mae jerked a nod.

"Just..." Scully began, swallowed, breathing hard. "Send Mulder.  
Send him over now."

She still had her gun. Maybe there would be a  
distraction...anything...a chance...

Owen's hand relaxed a bit and Mae gasped for breath, coughing.

"That's more like it," he said. "How's that for your friend now,  
Mae, eh? The person you turned your back on me for, and she's willing  
to let you and your baby die."

"You're not giving her a choice," Mae said.

"I did give her a choice," Owen insisted, pushing her head to the  
side roughly. "She chose Mulder."

Owen watched Scully, who was looking at Mulder and Mae, stricken.  
Then he turned and looked down at Mulder.

"Get up, Mulder," he said, his voice menacing once again. "Get up  
and go."

Mulder was panting, breathing hard through his nose as he stared at  
Curran. Scully could see the hatred that passed between them,  
Mulder's hesitation. Owen pushed the pistol harder against Mae's  
temple.

"Go now," Owen said. "Last chance."

And with that, Mulder struggled to his feet, his knees trembling. He  
staggered to the side, shook his head clear, and turned, walked  
unsteadily toward the bank.

Scully locked eyes with him as he reached the edge of the water,  
began to wade in, the water to his ankles, his calves, his knees. He  
stumbled even more than Porter had.

It happened so fast.

The gun from Mae's temple, pointed forward, pointed at Mulder's back.

A shot rang out. A scream, the word "no," tearing from Mae's throat  
as the gun went to her temple again.

The sound still continuing, Scully looked at Mulder, who had stopped  
in the middle of the stream. He was crumbling in on himself.

That's when she saw it. A red blossom at his stomach, the shirt torn  
around it like the petals of a crimson flower. He looked at her, his  
eyes lolling, then he tumbled forward into the water.

"MULDER!" Scully screamed, the sound joining Mae's shrill cry. Then  
she dropped to a crouch, going for the gun...

**

"SHIT! SHIT!"

Granger jumped to his feet and tore from the treeline, sliding down  
the slope into the clearing, kicking up a cloud of dust around him.  
He hit the ground at a dead run, the gun still in his hand but  
forgotten.

He saw Owen turn toward him, his gun coming up. Owen fired...

 

**

Mae felt the gun leave her temple, saw the man breaking from the  
slope, charging them. She felt Owen's grasp on her loosen with his  
distraction, saw Dana rising with a gun in her hand, and she knew  
what she needed to do.

She swung her elbow back, catching Owen in the ribs just as Owen's  
gun went off, knocking his arm off target.

He let her go and she dropped to the ground as though thrown there...

**

Scully shot to her feet, her stance sure, her left hand coming up to  
cup the butt of the pistol in her hand, bracing it, despite the fine  
tremor coursing through it. She fired...

**

Granger threw himself to the side, even though he knew Owen's aim  
had been knocked off when Mae had struck him. The bullet whizzed by  
overhead, too high. Then he saw the ragged hole appear in Curran's  
shoulder from the bullet Scully had just fired. It staggered Curran  
backward a few steps, but he held onto the gun, raised it toward  
Scully.

"NO!" he screamed, his arms and legs pumping as he tore for the  
creek.

 

**

Jimmy Shea adjusted his aim as his target staggered. It took only a  
second to do so, to line up the crosshairs on their target.

Anguish flared in him.

He fired.

 

**

Scully saw Owen's gun coming up, knew there was no time to get out  
of the way of this one. She raised the gun to fire again, but knew it  
was too late.

A strange feeling of calm came over her. Her eyes went to Mulder,  
who was bobbing slightly, floating with his face in the water down  
the creek.

She waited for the bullet to come.

The shot rang out, sounding strange and too loud and too-faraway.

Then, as she watched in fascinated horror, the top of Owen's head  
came right off, a spatter in a cloud of red beside him.

Owen dropped to the side, the gun tumbling from his hand as Mae  
screamed, scrambling away toward the creek.

Another shot, the same faraway sound.

The man Curran had hired, standing there dumbfounded, was suddenly  
struck backward, a huge hole in the center of his forehead. He fell  
back into the sand and didn't move again.

"Get down!" Porter yelled from behind her, and shoved her hard with  
both his hands, pushing her to the ground.

Scully fell forward on her belly in the sand, her eyes going to  
Mulder just as Granger hit the water, throwing himself at Mulder and  
hauling him to the bank closest Scully. He shielded Mulder with his  
body as his eyes darted around for the source of the shots.

Ten seconds, she realized.

The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.

"Mulder!" she called, struck out of her state, and, despite the  
danger, she began to crawl forward, leaving the gun behind,  
scrambling crab-like in the sand toward Mulder, who was sprawled  
across Granger's lap, his torso covering him.

Mae was coming from the other side. She entered the creek, splashing  
across. Porter was behind Scully, coming forward on his belly, as  
well.

Scully reached Mulder now, cradled his head in her hands as she  
looked into his face.

He wasn't breathing.

"Oh God..." she said. "Help me get this tape off his mouth." Her  
shaking fingers were working the corner up, and Granger worked the  
other corner. Finally they tore it off, exposing his swollen lip.

"He's aspirated water," Scully said, her voice quaking. Mae had made  
it beside her now, Porter behind her. Scully glanced down at Mulder's  
belly, where blood was seeping from the exit wound.

"Mae, put your hand over that bullet wound and press down as hard as  
you can. Granger, get him on the flat ground. And get the tape off  
Joe's hands. We need them."

"But those shots--" Granger began.

"Don't worry about them," Mae said, breathless, but her face was  
grimly set. She was still crying. "I think...whoever it is...he got  
what he came for."

Granger looked at her, as did Scully and Joe. Scully glanced up at  
where Owen's body lay, nodded.

Then Granger hauled Mulder up from the bank, lay his soaked body on  
the ground as Scully and Mae swarmed over him. Granger reached over  
and started unwrapping the tape from Joe's hands.

Scully scrambled up until she straddled Mulder's hips, leaned his  
face to the side. Then she performed a modified Heimlich, thrusting  
up on his abdomen beneath his ribs, trying to ignore the jagged hole  
in his belly. They would deal with that after he was breathing again.

On each thrust, some water came out of his mouth.

Mae clamped both hands on the exit wound, pressing hard around  
Scully's hand.

On the fourth thrust, Mulder jerked, sputtered, a huge cough coming  
from him as a spray of water came out of his mouth.

"That's it," Scully said, climbing off him and stroking back his wet  
hair from his pale face. "That's it, Mulder."

Mulder coughed again, water dribbling from the corner of his mouth,  
his eyes wild, looking at the faces around him. He looked dazed, and  
he hunched in pain from Mae's hands on the wound in his belly,  
moaning. He wheezed in a breath.

Granger had Joe's hands free, and Joe came forward on his knees.

"Tell me what to do," he said quickly, and Scully nodded toward  
Mulder's legs.

"We've got to get him out of here. Get his legs. Granger, get him  
underneath the shoulders. Let's get back to the truck."

With that, the two men lifted him, and Mae kept her hands on the  
exit wound as Scully reached to Mulder's back, her hand over the  
small entrance wound. The four of them walked quickly, as much in  
unison as they could manage, rushing back up the trail toward the  
Bronco.

Mulder was looking up into Scully's face, struggling to focus.

"It's okay, Mulder," she soothed as they tussled him along. "You're  
going to be okay." She looked down at the bleeding coming from  
beneath Mae's hands. It was bad.

Mulder gagged slightly, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then  
there was blood in his mouth, red around his teeth.

Scully felt panic overtake her now as she realized the extent of his  
internal injuries. His stomach had been perforated. He was bleeding  
into his belly.

They reached the Bronco, Scully throwing open the doors as Granger  
and Joe loaded Mulder into the backseat, Scully climbing up after  
them with Mae. She got Mulder situated on her lap, his head against  
her breast, then she tossed Granger the keys. Granger caught them,  
climbed into the driver's seat, Porter taking the passenger seat,  
though he was facing behind, his face stricken.

Scully and Mae leaned back down on the bullet wounds, pressing hard,  
despite Mulder's groans.

"Granger, drive fast," Scully said, breathless, as she looked into  
Granger's grim face. "We don't have much time."

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 21c and PART 3. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 22 and PART 4.

 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 22.

*********

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
11:34 p.m.

 

The statue of Mary was fronted by a stand of candles, all in  
multicolored holders so that the iron stand looked like it was  
covered with stained glass made of light.

Scully knelt before the figure. The statue's hands were pressed  
together in prayer beneath her alabaster chin, her eyes looking down  
at Scully with the patience of stone. There was a rosary in between  
Scully's hands in front of her, given to her by a priest who'd been  
doing rounds in the surgical waiting room, and the black plastic  
beads on their kite string slipped between her fingers almost  
absently, trembling from her left hand, her mouth moving over the  
prayers in silence.

Now and at the hour of our death...

Deliver us from evil...

Now and at the hour of our death...

No tears. She was too tired for them. Her body, running on over 36  
hours without sleep, couldn't muster them if she tried.

Granger had gone back to the motel earlier, let himself into both  
their rooms and gotten a change of clothes for each of them. She was  
out of the bloody t-shirt and jeans, dressed in a clean pair of Levis  
and a light, loose black turtleneck. It guarded against the air  
conditioning of the hospital, always set, she thought, a few degrees  
too cold for the living.

Around her, complete silence. The smell of candles, sending up their  
smoke prayers. The lights were out in the chapel, all except for  
single spots on the statues of Mary and St. Jude at their kneelers,  
and another on Christ hanging on the cross, the latter suspended on  
the back wall. The fifteen rows of pews were empty, the door to the  
chapel closed. She'd shut it behind her when she'd come in.

She reached the long single strand of the rosary, almost finished,  
one hand coming up to cover her forehead. She leaned forward,  
slumping on the kneeler slightly as the exhaustion settled over her,  
a crushing weight.

Heavy like Mulder had been in her arms, the Bronco racing along the  
deserted reservation highway, his eyes on her face, then closing  
against the pain, his breath hissing in an out between clenched  
teeth, blood on his lips. A noise had started in his throat, like a  
whine.

"Okay...okay..." she'd said into his face, though her adrenaline was  
pulsing as she staved off panic. "We're almost there. Just hang  
on..."

Mae straddled his thighs on the seat to hold her hands over the hole  
in his belly. She and Scully's eyes had met, Mae's expression grim.

Scully had had to look away from Mae then. Instead, she'd returned  
her gaze to Mulder's face, his eyes coming open lazily. She'd stroked  
his forehead with one hand, the other beneath him on the entrance  
wound. Blood was warm on her thigh beneath her hand.

He was dying. She could tell from the way he looked at her that he  
knew it, too.

She could almost see him slipping out of his body as his eyes rolled  
and closed and he lost consciousness, his face turned to her breast.

She stared into the candles, mumbling the prayers a bit now,  
concentrating on the words to block the images from her mind.

He'd been in surgery for five hours. There was no word on when he  
would be out.

Finally, after sitting there with Granger, who was either silent and  
looking at her helplessly every few moments or doting and trying to  
get her to sleep or eat, she'd needed time to herself.

The chapel had seemed the place to go.

She was vaguely aware of the door opening behind her, creaking  
closed quietly. Then footsteps, heavy and measured, coming toward  
her. She clenched her eyes closed, dared not turn around. She didn't  
know what would be waiting for her there.

The footsteps halted just behind her as the person stopped.

A hand came out and settled on her shoulder. She recognized the feel  
of it, though she couldn't really remember feeling it before.

Her fingers moved over the beads, finishing the prayer seeming,  
suddenly, very important. Three Hail Marys, then the Apostle's Creed  
and she was done.

She opened her eyes, held the plastic cross in her fingers, the rest  
of the dime rosary hanging down. She did not turn around.

"Hello, sir," she said softly, but her voice sounded terribly loud  
in the heavy quiet of the chapel.

"How are you, Scully?" Skinner replied, his voice tired.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice even more quiet. She still did  
not turn, or acknowledge his hand on her.

"Granger told me where to find you, about Mulder..." he said. "I  
hope...I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to see you, see if you  
were okay."

Now she did rise, stepped back as he removed his hand. She faced  
him, and saw him take in her appearance, his face going more  
concerned, though he tried to hide it.

He was still dressed in his suit from work, his dark trench over it.  
There was something so familiar about seeing him like this, something  
that was a poignant reminder of the life she'd been worried she'd  
left behind for good. It choked her emotions to look at him.

"When did you get here?" she asked, and her voice tremored.

"About an hour ago," he said. "I was on my way out here today  
anyway, after I got a few things taken care of DC this afternoon. I  
wanted to be here to head up the agents. I just got a report from  
them, incidently. They've already been out to the canyon and gotten  
everything they can in the dark. Owen Curran and the other man --  
Rudy Grey, according to his driver's license -- they're both in the  
morgue here now."

She nodded, trembling slightly as she struggled to contain what she  
was feeling, to concentrate on what he was saying. He noticed, she  
could tell.

"I've spoken to your mother," he said, jumping to what he considered  
to be a safe topic, she knew. "I told her the charges had all been  
dropped, that agents were on the way to you. This was yesterday,  
before I knew about Mulder and Curran. She doesn't know about any of  
that. I told her yesterday that it might be a good idea for her to  
stay away until we got you into protective custody. Of course, all  
that's moot now..."

She nodded. "Thank you, sir," she said, looked down. "I'll speak to  
her myself when things with Mulder are a little more settled." She  
couldn't think about her mother at this point. She couldn't think  
about anything clearly. She put a hand on her forehead, rubbed at her  
eyes.

"You sure you're all right?" Skinner asked, bending slightly to try  
to look into her eyes. She dropped her hand, met his gaze, nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I'm just tired. I should get back to the waiting  
room, though, in case there's any word."

She looked at him and could tell he felt dismissed, but was being  
understanding with her. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she added quickly. "I'm very grateful for everything  
you've done for us over the past months. I don't mean to seem--"

"It's okay," he said, and reached out to grip her upper arm as  
though he meant to hold her up. "I know you've got a lot on your mind  
right now. You don't have to apologize. I was glad to do everything I  
did. I just wish I'd been faster with it all. Maybe none of this -- "  
He gestured around them. "-- would have happened."

She shook her head. "We could all drive ourselves crazy thinking  
that way," she said. "Don't blame yourself for any of it." She  
paused. "Though I understand. I'm trying not to blame myself, too."

Now her eyes did rim with tears, and she put a hand to her forehead  
again, pushing her hair back roughly.

"He's going to be all right," Skinner said firmly, tightening his  
hold on her arm. "You have to believe that."

She pulled herself together, nodded quickly, wiped at her eyes.  
"Yes," she said, though she didn't even convince herself. "I need to  
get back now."

"Okay," he said, and let her go. Then he walked beside her down the  
long aisle and out into the cold corridor beyond.

 

**

APRIL 11  
12:04 a.m.

 

Upstairs on the fifth floor, Joe Porter, still dressed in the blood-  
spattered jeans and t-shirt he'd had on since leaving Mexico, sat  
next to Mae's bedside in a recliner, watching her sleep.

She was turned on her side, her legs drawn up, an IV coming from the  
back of her hand. She'd been shivering in her hospital gown earlier,  
and he'd layered blankets on top of her, gotten one for himself,  
which he now huddled beneath.

Mae's face was still pale in the room's florescent light, a light  
sheen of sweat on her face. She was still shocky -- dehydrated and  
exhausted from their ordeal.

When they'd gotten Mulder into the ER, Mae had collapsed in the  
waiting room, Joe barely managing to catch her as she'd slumped to  
the floor. She'd been rushed back to the ER herself then, and the  
doctors had examined her and decided she needed at least 24 hours of  
observation and a steady regimen of fluids and bland food.

Joe stood and went to the bedside, leaving the blanket on the  
recliner, leaned over Mae and kissed her temple, barely touching her.

The baby was all right, the doctors had said. Mae was going to be  
all right.

He couldn't believe how lucky they'd gotten.

Then he thought of Mulder and reconsidered that sentiment.

Joe wondered how he was doing. He'd told Dana which room Mae was in  
so that she could call and let them know any news, but there'd been  
no word yet. Though he didn't know Mulder well, he had grown to  
respect the man for how he'd talked to Owen and for his unwillingness  
to leave Mae when Dana had been forced to choose between them. He  
wanted to go down while Mae slept and check on how he was doing, how  
Dana was doing.

But then he remembered the hard truth of things -- Joe was, himself,  
wanted for drug dealing in California, the ghost of his past that  
still haunted him. And Mae...the fact that Dana hadn't had her taken  
into custody already spoke volumes of their friendship. He wondered  
if, as more and more agents poured into Show Low, Scully would be  
able to continue hiding Mae.

And now this man Granger was involved, as well. Joe wasn't sure what  
he would do with all this...

He sighed, shaking his head as he smoothed Mae's long hair back on  
the pillow behind her.

His thoughts turned, as they'd been doing over the hours, to Sean.  
Joe couldn't think of how to find his way back to the house where  
they'd been held. What would that man -- Lantham -- do with Sean when  
Owen didn't come back?

Surely Lantham wouldn't keep him. He would want to give him to  
someone, to Mae if he could find out she was alive. Lantham had  
struck Joe as a man of some compassion, some conscience. The fact  
that he hadn't participated in Owen's torture of him the way Grey had  
\-- and that he'd wanted to avoid the showdown in the canyon - showed  
that he was probably wanting to extricate himself from all this as  
quickly as he could.

A nurse drifted in almost soundlessly and checked the drip on the  
IV, then came around the bed toward Joe. He moved out of the way as  
she touched the inside of Mae's wrist gently, her eyes on her watch  
for several long seconds.

"Is she okay?" he whispered, and the nurse looked at him kindly.

"Yes, she seems to be doing all right," she replied, her voice  
quiet. "Just let her keep sleeping. She'll be much better by  
morning." The nurse looked at his shirt, the blood staining it. "Do  
you want me to get you some scrubs to wear until you get a change of  
clothes?"

He considered, nodded. "Just a top would be good," he replied.  
"Thank you."

"I'll bring one back when I come back in to change her IV in an hour  
or so," she said, and then she withdrew.

Joe took his place beside Mae again, his thoughts returning to Sean.

There was only one way Lantham knew to contact any of them -- the  
motel where Scully had been staying. He would know her name, that she  
was checked in there. That would be where he would call if something  
went wrong.

He would have to risk going down to find Dana after all. He needed  
to get her to check and see if there were any messages for her at the  
motel, any word at all yet. And he knew the motel clerk wouldn't give  
that information to him if he called himself.

Emboldened now with his plan to get Sean back, he leaned down and  
kissed Mae's temple once again, whispered into her ear.

"I'll be back," he said. Mae made a soft sound in response, but did  
not awaken.

Then Joe went to the door, flicking the light off as he left the  
room.

 

*****

DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL  
12:45 a.m.

 

Tom Lantham sat at the foot of one of the two beds in the dingy  
motel room, eating a bag of Soy Nuts and trying to do it as quietly  
as he could so as not to wake the boy on the bed beside him. Sean had  
finally cried himself out and dropped into an exhausted sleep about  
an hour before, just as Lantham was watching the top news story on  
the television, something about a double-murder in Hawk's Eye Canyon  
on the outskirts of town.

"The bodies have yet to be identified," the reporter had said, then  
talked about the strong FBI presence at the scene, the strangeness of  
the secrecy surrounding the two victims.

No mention of anyone else there, he'd noted.

The bodies had to be Curran and Rudy. Why else wouldn't either one  
of them return to the house? Curran wouldn't leave without his son,  
that much was certain. And Rudy wouldn't take off without Lantham.  
Both of them being dead seemed the only answer to that riddle.

But what had actually happened in the canyon, he couldn't begin to  
fathom.

All he'd known was that when no one had come back to the house after  
about 9 p.m., he'd gotten the hell out of there, expecting the cops  
or the FBI or someone to come raining down on him any second. So he'd  
packed up his and Sean's things and left, going the only place he  
knew he might have a chance of meeting up with someone who could take  
this kid off his hands. Then he could get back to Colorado as fast as  
he possibly could.

After he'd checked in, he'd left a message at the desk for  
"Katherine Black," the name he'd overheard Owen tell Scully to use.  
Sure enough, she was still listed as a guest, though she was not in  
her room. He'd told the clerk to have her call room 18 when she got  
in, and he'd heard nothing since.

Nothing to do now but sit and wait, he thought, gnawing on the Soy  
Nuts, the package crinkling loudly in the room. He glanced back at  
Sean to find him still asleep, the boy's hand clenched around a  
chipped metal car like his life depended on the thing.

Poor little sonofabitch, Lantham thought, shaking his head. He hoped  
someone would come and fetch him soon. Lantham was out of his league  
with this one.

The sound of the phone ringing nearly sent him out of his skin, Soy  
Nuts flying as he dropped the bag, cursing.

Beside him, Sean was sitting bolt upright in the bed, as well, his  
small chest heaving.

"It's all right," Lantham said, waving Sean off as he rose and went  
toward the ringing phone. He picked it up.

"Yeah," he said into it.

"Mr. Lantham?" came a vaguely familiar voice. The man sounded  
nervous. "This is Joe Porter. I got the message you left for  
Katherine Black. Do you have Sean there with you?"

"Yes, he's here. You coming to get him?"

"Yes," Porter replied, relief evident in his voice, though he still  
sounded guarded. "I'm in her room now. I'm coming right down."

Lantham looked at the door. "You coming by yourself, Mr. Porter?  
Because I don't want no cops or anything here."

"I don't want any cops or anything, either," Porter replied. "I just  
want Sean."

"All right," Lantham replied. "Come get him," and he hung up, then  
turned to Sean, who was still breathing hard, his eyes wide.

"That was Joe then?" Sean said, his voice pitched higher than usual.

"Yeah, that was Joe," Lantham said, and stood, weary. "Get your  
things gathered up. He's going to take you from here on out."

Sean climbed from the bed, began putting his things in the small  
suitcases he had open at the foot of the bed. There wasn't much to  
pack up. Sean had put everything away before the knock came at the  
door.

Lantham drew his gun just in case, looked through the peephole. Just  
Porter standing there, his black-and-blue face looking wide in the  
front from the fish-eye view. Lantham opened the door for him.

"Mr. Lantham," Porter said, nodding to him. Lantham gave him credit  
for looking fairly sure of himself. Somewhere along the way, the man  
had managed to find a clean white t-shirt, which made his face look  
not quite so bad.

Lantham looked around Joe to see if anyone had come with him, and  
when he saw no one had, he reholstered the gun. Sean hustled from the  
foot of the bed and around Lantham to Joe, who squatted down to hug  
the boy. Sean had begun to cry again.

"It's okay, Sean," Porter said softly against the boy's ear. "You're  
okay now."

Lantham watched the reunion, the sight making him disgusted and  
somehow sad. This whole damn mess had disgusted him. He was glad to  
be getting out of it now. No amount of money made what he'd seen  
worth seeing.

"Does he have his things?" the younger man said to Lantham, and  
Lantham nodded, went and gathered the suitcases and tried to hand  
them to Porter. Sean didn't seem willing to let Porter go, his small  
arms tight around his neck. Joe rose and got his arms around Sean,  
who gripped him with his small body. The boy keened quietly. Lantham  
saw that Porter had his hands full.

"Aw, for Christ's sake..." he said, shaking his head. "You got a  
room here?" he asked, and Joe nodded.

"Yes, just now," Joe said, cautious.

"Then I'll take these down. You take the boy."

Joe looked at him, still wary, and nodded, then turned and carried  
Sean out to the walkway, down a few doors to number 22, Lantham  
following with the small suitcases. He watched Porter fumble the door  
open, push it and carry Sean inside. Lantham followed, tossed the  
suitcases down on the nearest bed.

"I'll be taking my leave of you now," Lantham said as Joe turned to  
him, looking over Sean's trembling shoulder. "You don't know me and I  
don't know you, okay? I did what I was paid to do but I didn't  
believe in hurting anyone the way people got hurt. And I've lost a  
friend in the process, I assume?"

Porter nodded. "Yes, you have."

"Well, then my debt's paid, with me bringing the boy back to you. I  
hope you'll just let me go on."

Joe nodded. "I will. Thank you for bringing Sean. You did right by  
us to do that."

"I did what I had to under the circumstances," Lantham grunted.

Porter nodded again, his arms tight around Sean's back. Lantham  
could tell the other man didn't believe him, and he really didn't  
give a good goddamn.

And then Lantham went out, closing the door behind him.

He walked down to his room, his suitcase not even unpacked. He  
hoisted the dark bag, flicked off the television, and headed to his  
car, leaving the key on the dresser.

He'd paid for the room in cash, to make the leaving easier and less  
conspicuous. That was how he always did it. Starting up his car, he  
threw on the headlights, backed out, and headed down the main strip  
of Show Low, past the hospital and the town all gone to sleep,  
disappearing into the night.

 

**********

 

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL  
1:02 a.m.

 

Scully was sitting, tense, on the edge of one of the vinyl couches  
in the surgical waiting room, Granger trying to stay awake on the  
other side, a copy of Good Housekeeping on his lap. Skinner was  
pretending to be engrossed in a Sports Illustrated, but he was  
turning the pages too quickly to be reading anything. Scully looked  
down at her hands, then watched the door to the OR as if her will  
alone could bring the doctor out.

After about ten more minutes, it worked.

The doctor appeared, his mask still around his neck, pulling off the  
surgical cap he wore. His outer surgical robe had been removed so  
that he was just in clean scrubs now. He was peering around the  
waiting room, and Scully stood to make it easier for him to see her.

He came forward, and the smile he gave her as he made his way across  
the room was wan at best. She swallowed as he looked at her, pushing  
her hands into her pockets. Granger stood behind her, and Skinner  
from the other side, both men's tension like a tangible thing in the  
room around her. She did her best to push it away.

"Dr. Scully, isn't it?" the doctor asked as he put his hand out.

"Yes," she said, and her voice sounded strange to her, too breathy.  
"Dr. Kellerman, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, John Kellerman," he said as they shook  
hands. "Agent Mulder's still quite critical, but he's out of surgery  
and in the ICU. We just moved him down there."

"What...how much damage was there?" Scully said, relieved and  
concerned all once. It wasn't the best news they could have gotten,  
but he was alive. Something in her unhitched with that knowledge.

"It was quite extensive, I'm afraid," Kellerman said, shaking his  
head. "The bullet hit his kidney going in and clipped his stomach  
going out. There was a lot of hemorrhaging from the kidney, rapid  
blood loss. And of course, the contents of the stomach drained into  
the abdominal cavity, and you know what that can mean."

"What?'" Granger asked. "What can it mean?"

Scully kept her eyes on the doctor's face as she answered him.  
"There's a great risk of peritonitis, an infection of the lining of  
the abdomen," she said softly. "I assume you've got him on high doses  
of antibiotics."

Kellerman nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, though he clearly  
didn't take offense at the comment. "We're on top of that. The bigger  
problem right now is the bleeding from that kidney. We managed to  
save the organ itself, but with the blood loss being so fast and so  
severe, I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma for now."

"A coma?" Skinner asked, clearly alarmed.

Scully nodded. "Yes, that can be a complication from rapid blood  
loss," she said faintly.

"We've got him on life support at the moment," the doctor continued  
quietly. "I understand he was in a creek for a short period of time  
and aspirated some water. So we're going to give his lungs a rest in  
case there are any respiratory problems from that. Shouldn't be for  
more than a day or so. Just until we get him a little more stabilized  
and see what his body's going to do. It's still touch and go right  
now. The next 24 hours are going to be critical."

She nodded. "Of course," she said, looked down. She heard Granger  
move up closer behind her, but appreciated that he didn't touch her.  
Not in front of the doctor.

"When can I see him?" she asked, returning her gaze to Kellerman's  
craggy face.

"Give them an hour down there to get him settled in a little bit  
better," Kellerman said. "Then you'll have to go on the ICU visiting  
schedule. I know you're an MD and his medical power of attorney, and  
I will keep his chart open for you to look at. But those are hospital  
guidelines, and without you having privileges here, well... I can't  
bend them too much."

She nodded. "I appreciate you letting me see his chart," she said,  
swallowed again. "I'll try not to backseat-drive."

Kellerman chuckled once, a strange sound in the room. "You can say  
anything you need to. I don't promise to take your advice, but I am  
willing to listen. Why don't you all move on down there? They'll let  
you back in about an hour."

"Thank you," she said, nodding again and forcing a small smile she  
didn't quite mean.

 

******

THE PENTAGON  
WASHINGTON D.C.  
2:14 a.m.

 

Dr. Robert Padden walked the seemingly endless corridor, the floor  
shining in the building's dim, night lighting. He crossed into a  
large open area, an homage to men who'd won the Congressional Medal  
of Honor, then through, passing into another maze of corridors that  
led to the heart of the building.

He remembered taking his son down this same corridor once, years  
ago, when Ben was just a boy. He remember how proud he'd been, both  
of showing the boy the building and of showing his son to the people  
in the building.

Those days were not going to be over, he vowed to himself. He would  
walk these halls again, and with the same regard he was held in then.

He was going to see to that.

The walls went from plaster to dark wood paneling, the pictures on  
the wall from prints to oil portraits. Across one circular open area,  
carpeting picked up, rich and green.

He was getting close now. He could see the door at the end of the  
hallway, partially ajar and bleeding brighter light into the  
receiving area.

When he reached the door, he stopped, straightening the tie and suit  
he still wore from the day's proceedings.

"Come in, Dr. Padden," a voice from within said. A pleasant voice.  
He entered and the room smelled of books and leather and the  
unmistakable scent of power.

A figure sat behind a desk at the far end, and Padden went toward  
the man, stopping before the desk.

"Please," the man said. "Sit down."

Padden turned to the leather wing chairs in front of the desk,  
settled himself into one, his arms on the chairs delicately curved  
arms. He regarded the man behind the desk coolly.

"What is it I can do for you, Dr. Padden?" the man asked. Padden  
tried very hard to read his tone, but it was impenetrable.

"I think you know why I'm here," Padden said, looking down at a  
nail, then up again.

"Yes," the man replied. "There have been some...issues...as of late,  
I understand. This business with the two agents in the FBI. With Owen  
Curran."

"Yes," Padden said, and met the man's gaze, though it was difficult.  
"Perhaps if I can still bring Curran in--"

"Curran's dead," the man replied. "I don't know if Agent Scully or  
Agent Mulder killed him, but he's dead. One of my operatives sent  
from Phoenix just reported that to me a few hours ago. So capturing  
Curran won't help you, I'm afraid. You are, as they say, 'on your  
own' with this situation now that Ashcroft is involved. We can't risk  
involving the President in our affairs." The man levelled his gaze.  
"I'm sorry. It will be a shame to lose you."

Padden felt his face reddening and struggled to keep the emotions  
down. He leaned forward slightly, pinning the other man with his eyes  
in a manner that he'd never done before. He'd never had the nerve.

"I know things," he said softly. "You know what I know. Now I need  
your help with this, a way to get out of this. I don't expect to  
remain head of the NSA. But I expect to be moved within the  
organization."

The man paused, leaned back in the chair. "You say you know things,"  
he said quietly. "Is that a threat, Dr. Padden?"

"No, it's a fact," Padden replied. "There are a lot of people who  
would profit from the things I know, both personally and financially.  
I think I'm too valuable an asset to be lost at this point. You all  
have made me that way. So I'm asking for your help now. A favor,  
perhaps. For years of service."

The man seemed to consider. "And if I say no? What then?"

Padden met the man's gaze again, a faint smile growing on his face.

The man smiled back, nodded. "Yes, I think you're right, Dr.  
Padden," he said. "I think there are some things that can be done.  
And you're right -- you're too important at this point to be lost  
from the organization. Give me 24 hours. I'll set things to right as  
much as I can."

Padden nodded, relief washing through him, though he didn't show it.  
"Even with Ashcroft?" he asked.

"Yes," the man replied. "Even with him."

Padden stood now, reached across the desk. The man shook it, his  
heavily lined face twisted into a wider smile.

"We'll be in touch," the man said. "Try not to worry any more."

"Thank you," Padden said. "I appreciate your loyalty in this. I've  
been concerned."

"Don't be," the man replied. "Goodbye, Dr. Padden. I'll be in touch."

 

********

 

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
2:22 a.m.

 

The ICU waiting room was designed to look more like a living room,  
which made sense to Scully, since most of the people there were,  
literally, living there while their family members or friends were in  
the Unit. It had cloth couches, coffee tables, recliners, lamps  
instead of overhead lighting. Two televisions cornered the room, one  
with a VCR so people could bring in movies to watch.

The waiting was hard. The hospital was doing everything it could to  
make it easier.

There was a priest and a nun there, as well, seemingly stationed in  
the room. The priest was a different one than the one who'd given  
Scully the flimsy rosary, but he was kind and didn't impose himself  
too much. Father Hammond. That was his name.

Scully felt pleased to have remembered that given everything else on  
her mind.

Granger was asleep in one of recliners, finally giving in to the  
fatigue, his glasses askew on his face as he slept. Skinner had gone  
off a little while ago, saying he'd be right back. He'd been trying  
to catch her up on the news from the FBI, other news from Washington,  
but she'd only been half-listening to him, and she knew he could  
tell. He'd drifted into silence eventually and taken his leave.

After a few moments Skinner returned, looking awkward as he came up  
and stood in front of her. He looted around in his pockets, pulled  
out two triangular-shaped plastic containers, each holding pathetic-  
looking sandwiches from a vending machine.

"Turkey or tuna?" he said, proffering them both.

She smiled faintly. "Sir, I appreciate the gesture, but I really  
can't eat right now."

"Scully, you've got to have something. Granger told me you haven't  
eaten yet since you got here." He pushed the sandwiches closer to  
her, looking at her sternly.

She was too tired to argue. She reached up and took the turkey  
sandwich, peeled back the plastic covering and took a bite. It tasted  
exactly like it looked.

Skinner reached into his pocket again, brought out another sandwich,  
set it on the coffee table in front of Granger. Then he sat beside  
her, pulled the cover off the other sandwich and started to eat.

She ate half the sandwich, set the rest down on the table in front  
of her. She could see Skinner looking at her from the corner of her  
eye, though she kept her eyes on the television, the canned laughter  
of a sitcom mumbling in the room.

"I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now," Skinner  
ventured, and she saw him look down. "Your life has changed so much  
in just the past day, to say nothing of the past few months."

She chuffed softly. "Yes," she said. "Just not having to be hiding  
or running is something to get used to. And now with Mulder being  
hurt so badly... I can't even begin to think about being able to go  
home and pick up my life again." She looked down. "I just hope I  
won't be going back alone."

She appreciated that he didn't dismiss her feelings by saying  
something easy about Mulder. It was a real concern and he treated it  
like one.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but...your hand," Skinner said  
quietly. "Has it gotten any better?"

She hadn't really thought about it being better or worse, with  
everything else that had been going on. But now that she considered  
it, it probably was some better than it had been. The loss of  
strength she'd had in it at first was definitely better.

"It shakes more when I'm overtired or stressed, but the rest of the  
time it hasn't been that much of a problem. I haven't seen anyone  
about it, of course. I'm hoping that once I do something more can be  
done."

Skinner nodded. "I hope so, too." He looked toward the door, where  
two nurses had just come in. "I hope--"

"The family of Fox Mulder?" one of the nurses called, though she did  
not do it loudly. Scully stood and the nurse came forward. The  
woman's faint smile eased Scully's nerves.

"I'm Sarah Gabriel," the nurse said, reaching a hand toward Scully.  
"I'm Mr. Mulder's care plan nurse while he's in the ICU. You must be  
Dr. Scully?"

"Yes," Scully replied as she shook Gabriel's hand once. She  
introduced Skinner, who had stood and was there beside her, by his  
FBI title.

Gabriel smiled that same stiff smile at him, shook his hand, then  
returned her attention to Scully.

"Since you're a doctor, I don't have to prepare you too much for  
seeing him, I'm assuming."

"No," Scully replied. "I know what to expect. Can I see him?"

The nurse nodded. "Both of you can go back, but only for fifteen  
minutes. That's the hospital policy for ICU. Fifteen minutes out of  
every hour. You've been told he's in a coma?"

Scully nodded, swallowed. "Yes."

"There's no hard evidence that he'll know you're there, but you  
might consider talking to him, letting him know you're with him." The  
nurse looked at Scully, smiled gently.

Scully considered Gabriel's words. She thought back to her time in a  
coma after her abduction, the strange world she'd inhabited while in  
it. The one thing she could remember for certain were the voices  
around her. Mulder's voice.

She knew he would be able to hear her, as well.

"I will," she said to Gabriel, and the tears -- both from the  
present situation and from that memory -- started to ache behind her  
eyes.

"I'll take you back," the nurse said, and turned toward the door.

Scully looked up at Skinner, and she knew the sadness she was  
feeling was on her face now. She didn't want him to see anymore of  
that than she had to show him.

"Sir, if it's all right with you, I'd like to see him alone this  
first time." She looked down, knowing the words were a concession.

"Of course," Skinner said, and she met his gaze. "I'll be right here."

"Thank you," she replied, and turned and followed Gabriel into the  
corridor, leaving Skinner behind.

The double doors whooshed open, admitting them both. The large room  
she entered had a nurse's station in the center, monitors glowing  
from it. Then, in a circle around the station, tiny rooms with glass  
windows, all the patients visible from the central area of the  
station.

It looked too familiar to her. She heaved in a breath, let it out,  
as Gabriel took her to the right.

She could see Mulder there behind the glass, tubes all over him, a  
bank of lit screens behind.

It was like she was moving in slow motion. Like everything was.

Starting with Mulder's breathing -- slow and too-regular from the  
respirator.

"I'll leave you with him," Gabriel said softly. "Let me know if you  
need anything." Scully didn't acknowledge her as she left.

She took him in as she moved around to the side of the bed, her hand  
gripping the guardrail next to his arm. His face was turned away from  
her slightly. There were small pads taped to his forehead and temples  
to record his brain activity, the respirator at the corner of his  
mouth. His arms trailed IVs, an oxygen monitor biting lightly on his  
finger. She could see the bulge of the surgical dressing beneath his  
gown just below his ribs. He was covered to the waist with a white  
blanket that smelled too much of bleach.

A breath was pushed into him, let out slowly. Then again. It joined  
the sounds of beeping around her.

How many times have I been here, she thought bitterly. Right here?

She reached down and took his hand. It was cold, and she bent his  
arm up, holding his hand against the soft material of her shirt,  
trying to warm it against her.

"Mulder?" she called softly, her hand coming out to smooth down his  
hair as she leaned over him, the tears coming now. She didn't even  
try to stop them.

What could she say to him?

Finally she pulled in a breath, her hand lingering on his hair, and  
said the only thing she had needed to hear from him when she'd been  
lying as he was now. The only thing that mattered in the end.

"Mulder, I love you," she whispered. "And I'm right here."

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 22. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 23.


	7. Chapter 7

***********

13 STONELEIGH ROAD  
BETHESDA, MARYLAND  
APRIL 13 (TWO DAYS LATER)  
2:23 a.m.

 

Robert Padden walked down the long hallway that connected the study  
to the living room, his gait a bit unsteady. He was on his fourth  
scotch on the rocks, the dark liquid burning a trail down his throat  
with each sip. He was looking into each room as he went down the hall  
\-- the last, the darkened guest room where his son slept when he came  
to visit with his wife.

The room looked sterile and unused.

It had been a year since Ben had visited. Or was it more than that?  
He couldn't remember. All Padden remembered was the stiff dinner at  
the dining room table, Ben's tense smile as Padden had asked him  
about his new assignment, how the new ship was treating him. Ben's  
life in the Navy seemed a safe enough subject, a topic that wasn't  
Ben's mother or Padden's work, which he couldn't discuss at all.

It had been a lifetime of secrets from Ben, some by necessity and  
some by choice. The affairs he'd kept to himself until he couldn't  
any longer, until that night Diane had taken Ben and left his life  
forever.

Padden flicked off the light, the ice cubes in his highball glass  
clinking softly against each other as he stepped a bit off balance  
from the doorway.

The years of silence between he and Ben had stretched between them.  
They'd lingered for so long that they'd become two men who kept  
almost everything in their lives a secret from the other, most  
notably their own hearts.

He grunted at the thought, took a sip from his glass, and pulled his  
rich green robe around himself like a cape. He continued down the  
hallway into the living room, Part Two of Act Two of "Madame  
Butterfly" bleeding from the Bose speakers set into the walls.

"Con onor muore chi non pu serbar vita con onore..."

Padden grunted again. He was drunk now, for sure, and he didn't care.

He went for the bar against the far wall, refilled the glass with  
Glenfiddich and headed toward the open area in front of the huge bay  
window. It overlooked the vast woods behind the house.

He sipped, listened.

Another terrible day. Another meeting with Ashcroft, the formal  
notice of his termination from the NSA. A hearing before the House  
Intelligence Committee scheduled for tomorrow. Talk of charges.

And still no word from the Pentagon.

The music swelled around him, filling the room. He closed his eyes,  
his head buzzing with it.

It was time for him to make his contacts with the other sides. The  
men at the Pentagon thought he was bluffing, clearly. But he was not  
a man to bluff, and he would show them this. He would show them all.

He put the glass to his lips, tilted it up and drained it,  
swallowing fire.

As he pulled the glass away from his face, something strange caught  
his eye.

Red in the glass. The ice cubes glowing.

He stared at it for a few seconds, his brows squinting down.

Then he noticed a thin red line of light, stretched like a taut  
string from the window to the glass.

He realized what it was a second too late.

The pinch of breaking glass, a perfect hole through the thick bay  
window, the bottom of the highball glass falling away, ice and glass  
raining to the floor.

A bullet in his throat.

Choking, he dropped the glass, his hands going to his neck to quell  
the font of blood. He hunched and fell, his back hitting the white  
persian rug beneath him. He turned on his belly, air gurgling from  
him, one arm reaching out to help pull him back away from the window.

"No..." he managed, his voice ruined, blood coming freely from  
between his fingers.

Beside him, the red circle of light moved next to his face, an inch  
from his cheek. He pulled himself another foot. The light moved with  
him.

Finally, he stopped, both hands going to the wound now, the circle  
of light holding beside him. He rolled onto his side, one arm falling  
in front of him, reaching for the light, his hand a red claw.

The light sat in his palm, then began its slow and measured  
movement. The music continued, rising. The light reached his elbow.  
His upper arm. He lost sight of it for a moment and then it was  
there, a line from the window going onto the side of his face, up  
until it touched his eye, steady and far too bright.

He did not close his eye.

Glass broke.

 

**********

 

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 9:04 a.m.

 

Scully worked among the relative bustle of the changing of shifts in  
the ICU, using the little bit of time she had with Mulder the best  
way she could. She was working his limbs carefully, doing range of  
motion exercises on him, rubbing at the muscles in his arms, moving  
his elbows, his shoulders, his wrists. Then she moved down to his  
legs, uncovering them to his knees as she gently lifted each one,  
bending his knees slightly and massaging the long muscles of his  
calves.

The whole time, she talked to him.

She talked some about the status of the investigation. She told him  
that Skinner had contacted his mother, and that she would try to see  
him when he got back into Washington. She talked about Granger and  
Skinner and what they'd been doing to keep her occupied when she  
couldn't be with him, about Granger's penchant for rummy and for  
reading crosswords out loud, and how the latter drove her crazy. She  
told him the Yankees had won their opening day. She'd even remembered  
the score and who was pitching from the week-old newspaper she'd  
found in the ICU waiting room.

She wanted him to hear her voice. So she kept talking as she worked,  
glancing every once in awhile at his still features, the respirator  
and naso-gastric tube across his stubbled cheek, his eyes still  
beneath their lids. His chest rose and fell, but otherwise, he was  
still.

It felt good just to touch him, as well, she had to admit.

She reached down and flexed his ankle, her hand on the curve of his  
arch. It was then that Kellerman came by, looking down at Mulder's  
chart as he entered the tiny room.

"Dr. Scully," he said, a slight smile on his face. "Our patient's  
doing better today, I see."

Scully returned the small smile, kept working on Mulder's foot,  
pushing it forward and back. "Yes, his brain activity is getting  
better. More responsive. And the early signs of peritonitis seem to  
be under control."

Kellerman nodded, reviewing the chart as Scully spoke. "I'm going to  
go ahead and set up a pump for him for when he regains consciousness.  
I see he's allergic to morphine. What have you used on him in the  
past?"

"Demerol seems to work well with him," she replied.

"All right," Kellerman said, scribbling on the chart. "We'll do  
that, then."

Scully liked the turn in the conversation on many levels. She and  
Mulder's doctor had reached a good "working" relationship over the  
past two days -- she tried not to push too hard and he tried to  
respect her for what she knew. She also liked that Kellerman was so  
certain of Mulder emerging from the coma soon -- introducing a device  
that would allow Mulder to dose himself with a painkiller as he  
needed it showed Kellerman's faith in that.

Kellerman moved around Scully to the side of the bed, checking all  
the equipment himself, the readouts. He turned Mulder's head gently  
toward him, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen light, shone  
it Mulder's eyes one at a time. Then he lifted the covers and pulled  
up Mulder's gown, checking the dressing.

"Looks good. No sign of infection."

Scully nodded. She'd checked all this herself when she'd come in.  
"I'm glad," she said, to be polite.

Kellerman returned to the doorway, marking on the chart again. "I'm  
going to pull that respirator when he wakes up," he said, almost to  
himself.

He paused, and Scully looked up from Mulder's face at the silence,  
saw the doctor's serious expression.

"He's going to be hurting badly when he wakes up," Kellerman said  
softly. "You're aware of how painful belly wounds can be. And how  
long they can take to heal."

She nodded, moved to Mulder's other foot, flexing it, looking down  
at it. "Yes," she said. "I know what we're in for."

The "we" slipped, but she did her best not to be embarrassed by it.  
It was a fact, after all. And she doubted it was a secret to  
Kellerman at this point...

Behind the doctor, someone appeared in the doorway, and Scully  
looked up to see a nurse, and, to her surprise, Albert Hosteen  
standing there, a gentle smile on his face.

"Mr. Mulder has another visitor," the nurse said to Scully. "Only  
about ten minutes more, all right?"

Scully nodded mutely and the nurse withdrew. Scully's gaze was  
hitched to Hosteen's. Something in her unknotted at seeing him, and  
she felt her lips curling in the first genuine smile for days.

Kellerman turned and looked at the tall Native American man with his  
denim shirt and his long hair around his shoulders, then returned his  
gaze to Scully.

"Take fifteen minutes," Kellerman said. "I'll have them get that  
pump and I'll be back to check in on him later, if I'm not needed  
sooner." Scully thanked him and he took his leave, letting Hosteen  
enter the room.

"Hello, Agent Scully," Hosteen said into the murmur of machinery in  
the room.

"Mr. Hosteen," she replied, shook her head as she looked down at  
Mulder's face again. "Once again, we meet under grim circumstances."

"Not so grim," he replied. "He is alive. From what Mr. Granger just  
told me in the waiting area about what happened in the canyon, that  
is in itself a remarkable thing."

Scully chuffed. "Yes," she said, and set Mulder's foot down, then  
reached up and covered his legs again. "I guess you're right."

She went to the far side of the bed, tucking the blanket around  
Mulder's waist gently. Hosteen went to the other side, his hands on  
the guardrail.

They were silent for a long moment, Mulder's breathing hissing  
between them.

"You think he is very far away," Hosteen said, and Scully looked him  
in the eye again. "But he is right here. And you have your lives  
again, now that this man is dead and these charges have been dropped  
against you."

Scully nodded, and she found herself fighting tears again for the  
first time in awhile. Her association with Hosteen had left her  
vulnerable to him, to his kindness, in a way that she wasn't usually,  
even to Granger, who had proven to be a loyal friend.

"I know," she said softly. "I know we have our lives back. It's just  
so hard to believe that when I see him hurt like this." She reached  
out and brushed Mulder's hair back behind his ear, his face away  
still turned away from her.

Hosteen nodded. "I know that, in a way, it hurts you, too," he  
replied. "You have a bond that way. It is both the greatest strength  
and the greatest weakness between you. But only a weakness because  
people may see it -- like this man Curran -- and use it against you."

Now the tears did come. "It saves us both," she whispered, met his  
eyes. She had never spoken this openly about her relationship with  
Mulder, not even to her mother. But then no one had seen it the way  
this man had over the weeks in the desert. No one had spoken to her  
about it this way, either.

"You will have to learn to guard against that," Hosteen said softly.  
"But you will learn."

Again a beat of silence.

"Victor is with me," Hosteen said, brushing the previous quiet tone  
aside. "And I brought Bo, as I said I would."

Scully grimaced. "We're not in much of a position to take care of a  
dog at this point, Mr. Hosteen."

"I will be staying for awhile," Hosteen soothed. "Victor wants to  
buy a new truck, sell some horses here at the reservation. We have  
some business. Victor and I will see to him."

"I really don't think--"

"Trust," Hosteen said, putting a hand up. "Things will turn out the  
way they should. I have feelings about things like this. And I think  
you have learned the value of listening to feelings, even when they  
don't seem to make the most sense here." He tapped his temple.

She swallowed back her reply then, smiled faintly and wiped her  
eyes, then braced herself on the guardrail. There was no point  
arguing with the man. She'd learned that long ago.

They stood in the same companionable silence.

"How long do you think--" she began after a moment, and Hosteen held  
up a hand, silencing her. She looked at him in confusion.

Then he lay the hand on Mulder's forehead, right at his hairline,  
and closed his eyes.

Scully looked at the monitors behind her, at Hosteen's brows knitted  
in concentration, then down at Mulder again. For a long few seconds,  
nothing happened.

Then, just beneath Hosteen's hand, Mulder's eyelids fluttered and  
slowly slid open, staring at the ceiling above him.

Hosteen removed his hand, smiled at Scully, who was looking from  
Mulder to Hosteen, her eyes wide and more tears rimming them.

"Mulder?" she called, reaching out to put her hand where Hosteen's  
had been. She turned his face toward her, his eyes rolling a bit, his  
throat working around the respirator. A small sound came from him, so  
faint it was like a breath.

"It's okay, Mulder," she said, the tears still coming. "You're all  
right."

She watched his brow squint down, his eyes closing tight. Another  
soft sound came from him, this one full of pain. As she looked at  
him, twin tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and raced down  
his temples to his hair.

"Okay...okay...I'm going to get you something for the pain," she  
said, and looked up at Hosteen, who had reached down to grip Mulder's  
forearm in sympathy.

"Could you get the nurse, Mr. Hosteen?" she asked quickly. Hosteen  
nodded, released Mulder and stepped toward the doorway.

"How..." Scully said, halting him. "What did you just do?"

Hosteen gave her a small smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"His hand was moving," he said. "I saw it. You did not." And then he  
winked, went toward the nurse's station, moving fast.

Scully looked at the spot where he'd stood, a smile coming to her  
trembling lips. Then she looked down at Mulder as he opened his eyes  
again, his gaze on hers, his hand inching toward her to touch her  
belly with his fingertips through the railing.

"Everything's going to be all right now," she said to him, stroking  
his hair.

People had been saying it to her for days.

And this time, when she said it herself, she even believed it.

 

*******

2:38 p.m.

 

"So there was an old fox that had three young kits, and when the  
time came for the fox to teach the kits how to fend for themselves,  
the old fox took them down a country road to a house..."

Mae stroked Sean's hair as she spoke, the boy spooned into her, his  
face turned up toward the television that hung from the ceiling in  
front of the hospital bed. Joe had found some cartoon, the sound  
almost all the way down, but Sean's eyes were glued to it  
nonetheless, a small action figure gripped in his hand near his face.

"So they reached this house and there was this enormous racket of  
talking going on inside it," Mae continued, continuing to stroke  
Sean's hair. She looked over at Joe, sitting in the recliner,  
watching them both, his lips still red from the split. "You know what  
the old fox said to the kits then, Sean?"

Sean shook his head, but his eyes did not move from the screen.

"Well, he asked the first one if he could tell him who was in the  
house, and he couldn't. Then he asked the second one, and he couldn't  
tell the old fox either. So then the old fox asked the third kit who  
was in the house and he said: 'Either two women or twelve men.' And  
the old fox said to that one: 'You'll do well in the world, my boy.'"

She reached down and gave Sean's side a poke, and it got at least a  
smile from the boy, which she was glad to see. She laughed and he  
pressed himself back into her as she tickled him again, though she  
could not get him to laugh.

Again her eyes met Joe's over Sean's dark head. Joe smiled to her,  
but the smile had some sadness still in it. Since they'd told Sean  
that his father was dead two days ago, Sean had nearly vanished into  
himself, into his grief. Mae knew Joe ached for Sean as much as she  
did.

"Hey buddy," Joe said softly. "You hungry?"

"Aye," Sean replied, barely audible.

"You want to come downstairs with me and pick something out?" Joe  
asked, and Sean nodded.

"All right, Joe," he said, and with that, he started to rise, Mae  
kissing his temple as he sat up, her hand on his back as he slid to  
the floor. Joe stood and put his hand on Sean's head, smoothing down  
his hair.

"You want anything?" he asked, his voice tender.

She smiled to him. "If you can manage some fries, I'll have a few,"  
she said, and put her hand on the back of his neck as he bent down to  
kiss her softly. They lingered there.

"I'll be right back," he said, and she nodded.

Alone, she closed her eyes, breathed out slowly. They were going to  
release her this afternoon now that her dehydration and exhaustion  
were under control. One day in the hospital had turned into almost  
three, the vomiting only getting better in the past 24 hours. She  
suspected that stress had had a lot to do with her being as ill as  
she'd been, even in Mexico. Living hiding from her brother had taken  
its toll on her even there.

She was only now beginning to feel the freedom from that, beginning  
to believe that part of her life was over.

Now she just had to decide what the new life was going to look like.  
But she felt somehow calm in the face of that. She felt, for the  
first time in a years, a sense of hope that things could be different  
than they had been.

No matter what ended up happening.

She knew it was entirely likely she would go through this pregnancy  
in jail, that Joe would end up raising this child -- and Sean -- on  
his own. And though the thought anguished her, a part of her was  
ready for the life she'd led to be completely over, to be paid for  
and done with.

She was filled with regret for the things she had done. They felt  
like weights on top of her, and she knew she would carry those  
weights for the rest of her life.

There was a knock at the door, which struck her out of her  
introspection. She turned onto her back.

"Yes?" she called, and the door opened.

Dana Scully walked in.

Mae closed her eyes, opened them, her heartbeat picking up.

This is it, she thought. It's over.

**

"You weren't asleep, were you?" Scully asked, closing the door  
behind her. She saw the resignation settling over Mae, though Mae was  
trying to return her smile.

"No, no," Mae replied. "Just lying here. Joe and Sean are fetching  
something to eat."

Scully came around the side of the bed, standing in front of the  
recliner. Mae was taking in her appearance, she saw, with concern.  
She knew she looked a bit rumpled, a men's dress shirt on over a  
black t-shirt, the t-shirt tucked into her jeans, the top shirt tied  
at her waist. The sleeves were cuffed up above her elbows, and her  
hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She was a far cry from the very  
formal "Dr. Black" Mae had known in Richmond.

"I look like hell," she said, looking down and blushing. "You can  
tell me."

"No, no, you look fine," Mae said, though Scully could tell the  
other woman was having to struggle for a normal tone of voice. "But  
you do look like you're ready to get in that truck of yours and head  
for the border."

"Not anymore," Scully replied, and they both grinned at that, though  
Mae's was brittle.

They looked at each other for a moment. Scully regretted the  
awkwardness between them that cropped up in those few seconds, the  
tension in Mae's face and carriage.

"How is Mulder doing?" Mae asked, and her voice shook a little.

Scully smiled faintly. "He's just come out of a coma this morning,  
and he's off life support," she replied. "He's still critical, but  
he's going to make it."

"Thank God for that," Mae breathed. "I feared the worst in the truck  
on the way here."

"I did, too," Scully replied. She gestured to Mae. "How are you  
doing? They've kept you for a long time."

"Yes," Mae said, and her voice shook again as she spoke. "I've been  
so ill -- morning sickness that lasts half the day -- but it's  
getting better now that things have calmed down a bit."

"Your baby...it's all right?"

Mae nodded. "Aye, they say it's fine. Somehow it's managed through  
all this."

A heavy silence hung between them, neither of them able to look at  
the other. Scully started to speak, but Mae beat her to it.

"You've come up to arrest me, haven't you?" Mae asked softly.

Scully heaved in a breath, her eyes going to the door, then back to  
Mae's face.

"No," she said. "I haven't. And I'm not going to."

She saw Mae sink a bit on the bed, as though every one of her  
muscles had relaxed at once. Mae closed her eyes for a few seconds,  
and Scully saw tears slip from beneath them. She reached out and put  
her hand on Mae's arm, and the two of them ended up with their hands  
locked together.

"I owe you my life," Scully said quietly. "And I know you're not the  
person you were before. So I want you to run. I want you to get out  
of here and get out of the country and start your life over again. I  
want that for you. For Sean. And for your baby."

Mae sat up and reached for Scully, who went into her arms, pulling  
her close for a long moment.

"What about that man Granger?" Mae asked as they separated. "Won't  
he tell that I'm here? That you're letting me go?"

Scully shook her head. "Granger and I had a talk before anyone got  
here. He knows what you did for me in Richmond, and he's not law  
enforcement any more, anyway. He's left this up to me. We never  
mentioned that you and Joe were at the canyon at all. My supervisor  
doesn't know. As far as anyone knows it was a hostage situation with  
just your brother and Mulder. There were dozens of footprints where  
we were so there haven't been any questions."

Mae sniffed, wiped at her eyes. "Thank you," she said softly after a  
moment. "That sounds so empty for what you're doing for me."

"It's plenty after what you've done for me," Scully replied, and  
squeezed Mae's hand as Mae covered her face again, the tears of  
relief still coming.

"It's okay," Scully whispered to her, her own emotions welling.  
"It's all going to be okay."

"Mae?"

Scully looked toward the doorway at Joe Porter standing there, still  
wearing one of Mulder's t-shirts that she'd told him to get when he  
went for Sean. He had an order of fries in one hand and Sean's hand  
in the other. Sean was looking at her, clearly very afraid.

She kept Mae's hand in hers as Mae looked behind her.

"It's all right," Mae said to them, and Joe went to the other side  
of the bed, setting the food down on the nightstand. "Everything's  
all right."

Joe's eyes settled on Scully, something warm in them.

"Thank you," he said softly. "You've given me my life once already.  
Now you're doing it again."

Scully nodded to him. "You're welcome," she murmured. Joe seemed  
such a good man -- how he'd treated Mulder at the canyon, how much he  
clearly loved Mae. Scully wish she'd gotten the opportunity to know  
him better.

She dug into her pocket, pulled out the keys to the Bronco and  
proffered them to Joe. He took them.

"I won't be needing the truck anymore," she said. "Granger and I  
snuck out earlier while I couldn't see Mulder and when no one was  
around and cleaned it up some. There's about $500 in the glove  
compartment for you, all that Mulder and I had left. Take it and go."

Porter nodded. "Thank you. We'll go today." Scully nodded in return.

Then she and Mae looked at each other, emotion passing between them.  
Gratitude. Respect. All that made up their strange but very strong  
friendship.

"We won't ever see each other again," Mae said finally.

Scully shook her head. "No," she said. "We can't."

Mae nodded, leaned forward, and the two of them kissed on the cheek.  
Then Scully let her hand go and stepped back.

Sean was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at Scully. She  
turned to him, walked to where he stood and squatted down in front of  
him so she was looking up into his face. He looked down with his  
wide, sad eyes.

"You okay, Sean?" she asked, and he nodded immediately. Too fast.

"Aye, I'm fine," he said, but she could see his anguish in his face.  
She reached for his hand and held it lightly, rubbing her thumb over  
the back.

"Sean, I want to tell you something I've learned in the past few  
months," she began. "Things happen sometimes...terrible things.  
Things that hurt us so much that we don't think we can ever come back  
from them, that we'll ever be like we once were again. But we can  
come back. We can even be happy again."

He cocked his head as he looked at her.

"I know it's hard to believe that," she continued softly. "I know  
you must be hurting a lot right now. But you're going to be happy  
again. I promise you will be."

Sean's eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, as though ashamed  
for her to see them.

She thought of Sean's father when she looked at him, the hatred that  
had grown in him. She didn't want that for Sean. She didn't want any  
of that to touch him. She hoped it wasn't too late.

"Just remember to be kind, all right?" she said, her voice breaking.  
She reached up and stroked his cheek. "Stay kind."

Sean looked at her for a long few seconds. Then, finally, he nodded,  
wiped at his face, and stepped away from her toward Joe, who put an  
arm around Sean's shoulder and pulled the boy against him, rubbing at  
his chest, soothing him.

With that, Scully stood and turned toward the bed again.

She shook Joe's hand, no words passing between them as they nodded  
to each other. Then she looked at Mae once more. Mae wiped at her  
eyes just as Sean had, forced a small smile.

"Goodbye," Scully said softly. "Take care of each other, all right?"

"We will," Mae replied. "You and Mulder, as well. Goodbye."

Scully hesitated only a second as she and Mae looked at each other  
one last time. Then she went out the door.

 

*******

 

5:05 p.m.

 

"Two more minutes, Mulder," Scully murmured, stroking the hair back  
from his forehead. "Just two more minutes."

Mulder ignored her, his thumb pressing down the button attached to  
the IV pump that dosed him with his pain medication. The machine  
beeped softly, telling him that it was too early for another dose,  
the light on it glowing red. Mulder hit it again anyway, his eyes  
closed, his face away from hers. His chest was heaving as he panted  
shallow breaths.

Stricken, she reached down and covered his hand with her own, moving  
his thumb off the button gently. "It's okay," she whispered. "I know  
it hurts. Just try to hang on with me. Try to think about something  
else."

He turned his head toward her now, his glazed eyes opening and  
settling on her face. She smiled to him, gripping his hand, keeping  
her other hand on his hairline. "It's going to get better," she said.  
"I promise it will." She leaned down and kissed his forehead,  
lingering there. It seemed to calm his breathing some as she stayed  
next to him.

"Scully?"

She looked up, saw Skinner standing there looking uncomfortable. She  
felt a flush rise in her own cheeks, as well, but pushed it away.

"I'm sorry to intrude," Skinner said softly, coming into the room  
fully now. He was finally in casual clothes, the business with Curran  
closed on this end. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets,  
looking uncertain, but something was clearly on his mind. His jaw was  
working.

"You're not intruding," Scully replied, leaned up, her hand still on  
Mulder's where he held the pump's button.

"How's he doing?" he asked, going to the side of the bed. Scully  
nodded toward Mulder, and Skinner looked from her to Mulder as Mulder  
turned his head and swallowed.

"How you doing, Mulder?" Skinner asked again.

"Okay..." Mulder breathed. The pain was still deeply etched on his  
face, however.

"That's good," Skinner said. "I'm glad you're awake because this  
concerns both of you."

"What is it?" Scully asked, her brow creasing.

Skinner pulled in a breath, let it out. "Padden was found murdered  
in his home this afternoon. I just got the word. It looks like a  
professional hit."

Scully gaped. "My God," she said softly.

"Don't..." Mulder swallowed again, blinking slowly up at Skinner.  
"Don't make me...laugh..." he whispered.

"There's a hell of a commotion about it in D.C.," Skinner said  
tersely. "They've launched *another* inquiry into this whole thing --  
Padden's death now -- and Deputy Director Rosen is coming out here to  
interview both of you. They want to close this all out as quickly as  
they can before the media starts to have a field day with it. The  
press is already starting to dig into the story about the two of you -  
\- especially Mulder's part in the embassy bombing -- and Rosen wants  
to have your official statements as fast as he can to head off  
getting the Bureau embroiled in anything worse than it's in already."

"Mulder's not ready for something like that," Scully protested.

"I know," Skinner said. "I tried to tell him that. He's coming  
anyway. Granger and I did some digging to help clear Mulder's name  
and Rosen wants to go over that information with you both, to  
separate you from Padden as much as he can."

"Both of us?" Scully asked. "I didn't have anything to do with  
Mulder's hunch about which embassy. I don't have any information  
about Padden at all."

Skinner looked uncomfortable. "Some of the information Granger and I  
found that helps clear Mulder...has to do with you."

At Scully's impatient, quizzical expression, Skinner pressed  
forward. "The Overlook Motel on Afton Mountain," he said softly, and  
looked away.

Now Scully really did blush.

"Ah," Mulder breathed.

The pump beeped then, the light on it going from red to green.  
Mulder turned his face slowly toward it and Scully nodded down to  
him, releasing his hand. Mulder's thumb leaned on the button, the  
painkiller flooding into the IV port.

"He wants everything that happened in Mae Curran's apartment, too,"  
Skinner continued. "He wants to have a clean story to tell Ashcroft  
so we can get this whole thing over with."

"I see," Scully said, watching Mulder's eyes loll and glass over as  
the high dose of painkiller entered his system. His breathing calmed  
almost immediately. "I'll tell him everything I can, of course."

"Your relationship is going to have to come out," Skinner said, and  
Scully looked up at him. Mulder turned to look at him again, too,  
blinking in slow-motion. "Maybe not to the press, if we're lucky, but  
to Rosen, definitely. I'm sorry."

No use denying it now, she thought.

"We're not doing anything wrong," Scully said firmly. "You know  
that."

"No, you're technically not just by being in a relationship,"  
Skinner replied. "But going to that motel together was a breach of  
professional conduct for both of you. I think the best-case scenario  
is a formal reprimand from Rosen for that."

Scully felt her frustration rising.

"And the worst-case scenario?" she asked, pinning him with her eyes.  
Skinner looked from one to the other, then finally settled on Scully.

"He might want you separated," Skinner said softly.

Scully shook her head, looking away. She was angry now, but there  
was no place to put it. Skinner was merely the messenger. And she  
already knew he would do everything he could to keep she and Mulder  
from being pulled apart.

"I'll do what I can," Skinner said, as if reading her thoughts.

She nodded, and she saw Mulder nod, as well, though he was beginning  
to drift off, his eyelids getting heavy.

A nurse appeared from the station, came in the doorway. "Dr. Scully,  
there's someone else who wants to come back," she said, and drifted  
away as Scully thanked her.

Skinner reached down and touched Mulder's shoulder. "Get some rest,"  
he said, and Mulder nodded once. Then Skinner turned to Scully. "I'm  
going back to the motel. I've got some business I need to handle  
about all this. But I'll be back."

"Thank you, sir," Scully said quietly.

Their gazes hung, then Skinner left the room.

Mulder turned back to her, his hand dropping the button and going  
for the knot of his shirt at her belly. "Don't worry..." he breathed.  
"They...won't do it."

She reached down and took his hand again, being careful of the IV in  
its back. "Don't think about that now," she said gently. "Just rest.  
Let yourself rest..."

She let her voice drift off, soothing him, leaned down and kissed  
his lips carefully, just a brush, being careful of the gastric tube  
and the canula. When she pulled her face away, he was asleep.

She leaned back up, and pulled in a breath in surprise.

Margaret Scully stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her  
cheeks as she looked at her, one hand over her mouth.

In the other, pressed against her chest, an open envelope, yellow  
paper showing.

The letter, Scully thought, closing her eyes. She'd forgotten all  
about it in everything that had happened.

"Dana?"

Scully looked at her mother. Tears rushed in.

She was around the bed in an instant, her mother meeting her  
halfway. The embrace they shared was so tight they could barely draw  
breath. Scully lost herself in it, as if nothing to could touch her.  
Like when she was a child in her mother's arms. She felt that safe.

"Thank God..." her mother breathed, stroking her hair and rocking  
her small body lightly. "Thank God...."

 

*************

 

END OF CHAPTER 23. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 24.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 24a.

**********

APRIL 16  
(THREE DAYS LATER)  
10:35 a.m.

 

When Scully had first entered medical school, bright and young and  
with a life behind her that was mostly untouched by tragedy, she had  
seen nothing but possibility in front of her. She'd entered the  
University of Maryland with the intention of being a surgeon, a  
person who would do intricate, difficult work with the living with an  
unwavering faith in her ability to save those lives.

Perhaps it was that her life had been so devoid of real hardship  
that made her initially taken with the dead her first year of medical  
school. Her first cadaver had fascinated her, the secrets that it  
seemed to hold. It had been a homeless elderly man, unclaimed by  
anyone on his death. No affiliation. No history. Lifeless, it seemed,  
in more ways than simply the absence of life within him.

But as she worked, she found herself wondering about him, and  
finding answers to her questions within his body -- bones brittle,  
liver swollen with cirrhosis, the ghosts of malnutrition and of the  
man's drowning himself in alcohol to hide from some pain she could  
never know.

But she did know. She saw his life written on his body, a braille of  
suffering beneath her instruments and hands. And she honored that  
suffering. By the time she covered him for the last time, she felt  
she understood the life he had led, one that had brought him to her,  
a woman he did not know but who would be the last to touch him, if  
anyone had ever touched him before her at all.

She didn't know why the man, known only to her as "John Doe #311,"  
was on her mind this morning. Why that body among the hundreds of  
others she'd seen over the years.

Perhaps it was because one often returned to beginnings when endings  
seemed in sight. And she was looking at an end to that kind of  
discovery and affiliation that she'd found with others, even in their  
deaths.

Sitting in the examining room of the hospital's well-staffed clinic,  
a battery of testing and bloodwork behind her from the past three  
days, she stared at her hand and saw that ending. Curran had quite  
possibly taken that part of her life away with his drug, as surely as  
he'd tried to take Mulder from her, coming so close to succeeding in  
that that even now, with Mulder finally stable in the ICU one floor  
down, she still felt the fear at losing him.

Hope, she reminded herself, watching the faint trembling of her hand.

If the past weeks had taught her anything, it was the value of that  
gossamer feeling. She would hold onto it. She clenched her left fist  
in her lap and held onto it, waiting for the doctor to come through  
the door and tell her future, tell what exactly Curran *had* managed  
to take away.

She was nervous, but she was ready to hear the truth. She was  
through running. And that meant from everything. Even this.

After another moment, her doctor, a man in his late-40s named  
Conlin, came through the door, a grip in his hand and a folder  
stuffed with her test results in the other. He smiled stiffly to her,  
and she returned it.

"How are you, Dana?" he asked, approaching her where she sat on the  
edge of the table.

"I'm fine," she replied. "I've been...anxious to know what you've  
found, of course, but I'm fine."

He nodded, handed her the grip, which she took in her left hand. It  
was a "V" of metal and rubber, with a digital readout set into one  
side of it. He flicked it on, stood back with his arms crossed, the  
folder still in one hand.

"Squeeze," he said, nodding at her hand.

Scully leaned in on the device, closing its metal jaws with her hand  
until the two sides nearly touched. She gritted her teeth, bearing  
down on it.

"Release it now."

She did as she was told, and Conlin took the grip from her and  
checked the readout. Then he had her repeat the process with her  
right hand.

When she was done, he checked the reading again, his expression both  
pleased and perplexed.

"What does it say?" Scully asked, nervous.

Conlin shook his head. "This shows the same thing I've been seeing  
all along. There's only a slight discrepancy between the strength of  
your left hand and your right."

Scully nodded. She knew this. "What about the nerve conduction  
study?" she asked. "What did it show?"

Conlin opened the folder and looked at it, then proffered the sheet  
to her. She looked at it, reading over the results.

She released a breath, closing her eyes.

"No damage that we can perceive," he said. "The nerves in your arm  
and hand are fine."

Thank God...

"The only thing that I *did* find, in fact, is this," he said, and  
pulled out another sheet from the folder, handing it to her. "You  
said you were exposed to some sort of drug -- a serotonin-inhibitor,  
right?"

She nodded, looking at the printout.

She gaped at it.

"The drug's still there," she breathed.

Conlin nodded. "Yes, it would appear so," he said. "Though there is  
also the presence of several other compounds which would appear to be  
derivatives of the drug itself. Which I would infer to be a good  
sign."

Scully looked up at him. "It's breaking down then."

Conlin nodded. "That's my guess. I can't be sure, of course -- I've  
never seen a drug like this -- but that's my guess."

She stared down at the paper, a smile teasing her lips, though she  
was afraid for it to come. "The drug is most likely causing the  
tremor then."

Conlin shrugged. "I can't see any other cause for it. There's  
nothing physically wrong with your arm or your hand. You know, I've  
seen this before with some other drugs. Risperdal, for example. It  
gives symptoms similar to Parkinson's Disease. Tremors and such, and  
often only in one area, like a hand or a foot or on one side of the  
face. It wouldn't surprise me if that was the case with this, as  
well, though we'd need to do a lot more study to nail that down."

He looked embarrassed now. "We're not exactly equipped for that kind  
of research here. But I'm sure once you get back to Washington you'll  
be able to find someone who can do it, if you don't want to undertake  
it yourself, of course. There might be some chemotherapies that can  
be done to hasten the breakdown of the substance. I just don't know."

She kept her eyes on the paper for a long moment, considering what  
it all meant. This explained so much. Like the continuation of the  
almost hallucinatory dreams over the past months. Much like those  
she'd had when she'd first been exposed to the drug. Some of the  
dreams she'd had since Tennessee were only slightly less vivid  
versions of what she'd experienced then.

When she looked up at Conlin, he was smiling.

"I'm glad to have been able to give you good news," he said. "I must  
tell you, on my first examination, I feared what we might find with  
all these tests."

She nodded. She'd been fearing it for so many weeks now. She hadn't  
even realized how tightly she'd been holding herself until she began  
to slowly unclench with the news.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I appreciate you rushing all this  
through for me."

Conlin handed the chart to her and nodded. "Like I told you when you  
came to me -- we push things through for law enforcement. Here you  
go. These are your copies to take back east with you. Let me know if  
I can do anything else between now and the time you leave."

"I will," she said, and slipped off the table. She offered him her  
hand, and he took it, and now her smile did come.

 

**********

 

CHESAPEAKE BAY  
OFF WILLOUGHBY SPIT  
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA  
11:13 a.m.

 

Jimmy Shea steered the thirteen-footer around the bridge point,  
heading out from Willoughby Bay near the naval base over the tunnel  
of Interstate 64, the brown/green water stretching out as far as he  
could see. The boat rocked on the chop as he headed out away from the  
bridge that led to the tunnel entrance, the interstate choked with  
traffic even at this hour.

He needed to put some distance between him and the cars, and he  
headed out into the open bay now, leaving a greenish wake behind him,  
the hulk of three aircraft carriers perched on the horizon behind  
him. He watched them for a long moment, the new pipe he'd just bought  
on the trip back from Arizona clenched between his teeth, the wind  
burning the tobacco within it.

Ruby would have his head for smoking the thing, he thought. He'd  
have to pitch it before he got on the plane. But that wasn't until  
later that afternoon. He'd enjoy the sweet tobacco while he could.

The engine growled its way through the cold water, taking him out  
past the point of Ocean View, around towards the mouth of the bay  
where it would eventually meet the Atlantic. Once he'd reached a  
place well out of the sight of land and where there were no other  
boats to be seen, he cut the engine, the boat rocking even more as it  
slowly came to a halt in the water.

He got up from the seat behind the steering wheel, went for his  
duffel bag that he'd stowed at the stern. He had good sea legs, and  
rode the boat well as it rose and fell. He didn't even have to hold  
onto the sides as he made his way to the rear. Reaching the long  
duffel, he took one final look around, then unzipped it.

The rifle case was there, his fishing tackle laying beside it,  
jumbled together. He braced his feet a bit more, then drew the long  
case out, set it on the deck, and unhooked the latches, pushing the  
case open in grey mid-day light.

The rifle, still assembled. The rich wood of its stock. The well-  
oiled workings and barrel. The trigger's black showing signs of wear,  
the only part of the gun that did.

He studied it for a long moment, settling down onto the side of the  
boat, his hands on his knees as he looked at it with his tired pale  
eyes, the pipe still between his teeth, smoke leaking from the corner  
of his mouth and getting pulled away by the wind.

The gun had been with him for as long as he could remember. How many  
nights had he lain awake on watch, hidden away in some safehouse, the  
rifle across his lap? How many times had he lain in wait, just below  
the ledge of a window, peering over through broken glass at someone  
below, someone walking down the street, alone and unaware?

There had been a time in his life, long long ago, when the memories  
of these things would have given him some measure of pride.

But not anymore.

Now they only made him tired, and deeply sad. What he'd given his  
life to seeming...if not wrong, terribly empty. He had done what he'd  
done for reasons, of course, and he knew this.

But now?

Now he had only the vision of Owen Curran in his mind, the boy he  
had known grown into a man who had grown mad in the face of all that  
Shea had once believed in. Shea saw only the shot as it had hit home.  
The spray of gore. Owen's body dropping onto the sand and lying  
there, instantly still. As though it had never been alive at all.

Perhaps, in the end, it hadn't, he thought, and shook his head,  
reaching up to remove the pipe from his mouth. He stared into the  
bowl, then back at the rifle on the deck.

Perhaps, in the end, there had been a part of him that had never  
been alive, either. His life lost to the Troubles. To the killing.  
Were it not for Ruby, he would have felt he'd come away from his life  
with nothing. Nothing at all.

Back home they had cobbled together an uneasy peace. Looking down at  
the rifle, he looked within himself and decided, sitting there with a  
noontime storm rolling in from the south, to do the same.

He replaced the pipe in his mouth, reached down and picked up the  
rifle, feeling the familiar weight of it, catching the faint  
fragrance of gunpowder and oil as he lifted it, holding it front of  
him.

With two steps toward the side of the boat, he stopped. Then,  
thrusting out with both arms as hard as he could, he threw the rifle  
as far away from him as he could, watched it arc into the air, then  
disappear into water's darkness.

He was not quite satisfied as he stood there for a long moment,  
pulling on his pipe. A gust of wind kicked up and nearly took off his  
fisherman's cap, and he reached up and held it on, tugged it more  
tightly into place, his eyes on the spot where the gun had entered  
the water.

Then, seeing the storm clouds coming in, he turned, went back to the  
duffel. A few more tosses and the ammunition followed the gun into  
the water, the gun oil. All of it. Until the case was empty. Then he  
picked up the gleaming rod and reel, laid them in the rifle case on  
all the padding, hooking the hooks into the foam.

He closed the case, replaced it in the bag, and stowed it again,  
heading back to the wheel. The engine coughed as he touched the  
ignition, the rented boat coming to life.

In four hours, he'd be at the Norfolk Airport, the truck left with  
one of Conail Rutherford's friends. A puddle-jump to Dulles, and he  
would be on his way home, to Ruby and good bread and his boat, upside  
down, its spine and ribs waiting for him to come and close them over,  
to prepare the boat for the sea.

He thought all this as he pushed the throttle up, sending the boat  
into a wide arc as he turned and headed back toward the Spit, leaving  
behind him a wide wake of motion.

 

***********

 

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL  
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA  
1:08 p.m.

 

"Mulder, puff out your cheek for me."

Scully swished the razor in the kidney-shaped basin on the  
nightstand, lifted the tubes once again from Mulder's cheek. She  
reached in carefully, scraped the razor up his cheek, leaving a line  
of skin in the shaving cream. She rinsed the razor, repeated this  
until his cheek was clean of both foam and stubble.

"You don't have to do this, Scully," Mulder said faintly, looking up  
at her as she rinsed the razor again, cleaning out stubble with a  
washcloth that was hanging over the rail of his bed. "Rosen isn't  
going to care what I look like when he chews us out. If anything the  
stubble might get me some sympathy."

Scully smiled at that, more of a cringe. "I think you're going to do  
fine in the sympathy department," she said.

"I look that bad still?" he protested, but his voice could still  
barely manage.

"No, you look fine," she lied, reaching in and tilting his chin up  
slowly, running the razor up from his throat. "I just meant that you  
being in the ICU and the chewing out being limited to as close to  
visiting time as possible will probably save you from getting too  
much." She smiled mischievously. "I just don't want to ever see you  
with a beard again."

"Hey..." he said in a wounded voice as she rinsed. "I thought you  
liked the beard."

She smiled. "I did. But that doesn't mean I want to see it again."  
The smile waned. "Too many associations."

He nodded, met her eyes seriously, what they'd been through passing  
between them once again in a fleeting few seconds. Then she tilted  
his face and continued shaving him.

It took her a few more minutes, but then his pale face was smooth,  
the layer of dark stubble gone. She wiped his face gently with the  
clean side of the damp cloth, moving the gastric tube and the canula  
as she worked off the last of the white. When she was finished, she  
bent down and kissed him softly.

"Thank you," he whispered while her face was still close.

"You're welcome," she replied, and kissed him again.

She stood back then, straightened her suit, lay the washcloth over  
the basin and set the razor beside it.

"You look good," he said, and she smoothed the front of the jacket  
down.

"I don't," she replied, looking down at the black suit, the skirt  
hanging on her. "This suit is almost two sizes too big for me now.  
But I figure it's better to meet Rosen like this than in my jeans and  
one of your shirts. We need to appear to be taking this seriously.  
Because it is serious."

She watched his face darken as he looked at her, something fierce in  
his exhausted eyes.

"I won't let him separate us," he said, but the strength of his  
words was tempered by the crack that formed in his voice, the last of  
it coming out as a whisper.

She smiled faintly to him, affection in her eyes. "I know," she  
murmured, and reached down to take his hand, their fingers lacing.  
"We'll do the best we can."

He nodded again, gave her hand a squeeze.

"You've got to be tired," she said, stepping back and releasing his  
hand. "I'm going to leave and let you sleep some before Rosen gets  
here. Skinner said they'd arrive at about 2:30 or so. You've got some  
time to rest."

"I'll try," he whispered, and they both knew he wouldn't. There was  
too much on both their minds, too much at stake.

"I'll be back," she said. It was what she said to him instead of  
saying anything close to goodbye. She trailed her hand down his leg  
as she went around the bed and left the room.

Outside in the waiting room, her mother was waiting. She stood,  
smiling warmly, as Scully went to her on a couch on the far side of  
the room. Other families clustered around, though the place was more  
empty since it was the visiting interval. Scully was glad for the  
relative privacy. It helped her already-jangled nerves.

"Is Fox all right?" her mother asked. "You look worried."

"No, Mulder's fine," Scully replied, shaking her head. "I'm  
just...nervous. About this meeting coming up."

Her mother nodded sympathetically and they sat -- close together,  
almost touching, as they had been every time they were together since  
Margaret Scully had arrived.

"I know a lot is at stake right now," her mother continued. "I'm  
sorry that after everything the two of you have been through you're  
having to do this, too. But I'm sure it will work out just fine."

Scully shook her head, looked down. "He has every reason to separate  
us," she said, something angry in her voice. Angry at herself. "What  
I did was...stupid. Calling Mulder like I did that night. Meeting him  
like that while I was on assignment."

"You were upset," Margaret Scully replied. "From what little you've  
told me it sounded like you needed someone with you that night. I  
don't think you should be punished for needing someone."

"Mom," Scully said softly. "I was undercover. I could have  
jeopardized the entire operation if someone had followed me and seen  
me with Mulder. It was irresponsible. Rosen will blame me for calling  
Mulder, but he'll blame Mulder for coming, and say it was our  
relationship that clouded both our judgements." Her voice grew more  
faint. "And he'll be right. In some respects, at least."

Her mother was quiet on hearing this, and Scully let the silence  
stretch, looking down at her hands.

"You know, seeing you in that suit..." her mother said softly, and  
she smiled. "It reminds me of that time when you were in high school  
and your father and I had to go with you to see the principal.  
Remember that?"

Scully chuckled. "When I got caught for sneaking off campus?" she  
asked, and she laughed again. "Now *that* was stupid. All that to  
make sure I got tickets to the Billy Joel concert."

"Which your father then didn't let you go to," her mother rejoined,  
her voice mock-stern.

"Of course," Scully said. She looked down at her suit. "And I  
insisted on wearing one of your suits in to see Mr. Speldman. I  
thought it would make me look more 'adult.'"

Her mother nodded, smiled wider. "And what you really looked like  
was a teenager wearing her mother's church clothes."

They laughed together -- quietly, considering the space.

"I couldn't tell you that at the time, of course," Margaret Scully  
said. "You were going to go in there and try to meet him as an equal,  
suit for suit. And you did. You admitted you'd done wrong, but you  
didn't exactly apologize for it, either. It had been something that  
mattered to you, and what mattered to you was more important than the  
rules."

"I was still in the wrong," Scully replied. "The policy was very  
clear."

"Yes, you were still in the wrong. And you were willing to take the  
punishment for it, including not being able to go to the concert. But  
you weren't ashamed of doing something that was important to you."

Scully's smile faded a bit as she returned her gaze to her lap.  
"This is a little bit different than that, Mom," she said softly.

"It's different, yes," her mother said, reaching up to push a lock  
of Scully's long hair behind her ear. "In some ways. In some ways  
not. I was proud of you for how you handled that. You had a sense of  
yourself that I admired."

"You were proud of me then?" Scully repeated, incredulous. "You  
could have fooled me." She looked into her mother's face now, the  
other woman's eyes warm.

"Sometimes we can't tell our children things like that when they're  
young," she replied, reaching out to lift a small piece of lint from  
Scully's otherwise pristine suit. "But fortunately we get to do it  
when they're older. And I am proud of you. I'm proud of what you've  
done through all this."

Her voice dropped, and she reached out to touch Scully's hair  
softly. "Especially given what you've been through."

Scully looked down again, nodded. It still struck her that she'd  
told her mother about the rape. She was also struck how relieved she  
was to have done it.

Her mother cleared her throat. "And I'm proud of what you have with  
Mulder," she continued. "I don't think you should apologize for any  
of it."

With that, her mother stood, gathered up her purse. "I'm going to go  
down and get some lunch. Why don't you come with me? I think it would  
do you some good to get away from here for a little while, before all  
this happens. And you need to eat."

Scully nodded, still considering everything that her mother said.  
She felt a flush at hearing her mother say the things she had. The  
flush of a child who speaks to a parent and who finally feels, in  
some respect, completely understood.

"All right," she said, stood, and followed her mother out of the  
room.

 

***********

 

2:43 p.m.

 

Mulder had done his best to doze since Scully had left, but as the  
time when Skinner and Rosen would arrive drew closer, he'd found  
himself getting even more keyed up and frustrated. The pain in his  
belly and back throbbed through him, as well, since he'd refrained  
from taking any more painkiller since Scully had left. He wanted to  
be as alert as he could, and the drug doped him up, made him tired  
and his thinking fuzzy. This was no time for that.

He looked down at the small wand with the button on the end dangling  
over the railing and sighed. He'd hoped it wouldn't hurt *this* much  
to go without, and the strength of the pain surprised him.

His breathing was more shallow now as he tried to keep his belly  
from rising and falling as much as possible. He also lay very still,  
staring up at the ceiling, to keep from aggravating the surgical  
sites with movement.

He hated being so helpless. He didn't want to appear this way to  
Rosen when he came in. He wanted to appear as strong as he felt  
inside about what he and Scully had done, what they'd been through.

He wanted to be ready to fight if necessary. He hoped he was up for  
it, because he might not get another chance.

He closed his eyes, tried to let out a normal breath. His stomach  
burned.

"Mr. Mulder?" a voice said from the doorway. He opened his eyes and  
saw Debbie, one of the day nurses, standing in the doorway, looking  
at him with concern.

"Yes?" he said, and the pain was in his voice.

"Are you all right?" Debbie asked. "Your respiration and pulse are  
up."

He nodded. "I'm okay," he replied, holding up a placating hand.  
"Thank you, though."

She looked unconvinced, but relented. "Let us know if you need  
something, especially if the pain gets too bad," she said, and when  
he nodded, she disappeared back toward the nurses' station.

He closed his eyes again, tried to slow his breathing back down. On  
top of everything he had to admit he was nervous. That wasn't helping  
matters much.

He and Scully had actually had very little contact with Rosen. He  
was fairly new -- on the job since the previous summer, but Mulder  
and Scully had gone on to Richmond in December, limiting their time  
under his supervision. Mulder had, in fact, only met him once, a  
meeting about the budget of their division, in which Rosen had been  
formal and no-nonsense, but had allowed their expenditures based on  
their solve rate. He'd struck Mulder as a reasonable man, but also a  
man who followed the book to the letter.

That latter part might be what would cause he and Scully the  
problems, he thought, sighing.

He turned his face toward the monitors, his eyes still closed,  
listening to the cadence of his own heart for a long moment.

"Mulder?"

Scully's voice this time. He turned his face toward the door, opened  
his eyes, and she was standing there, looking at him with concern.  
Behind her, Skinner stood, clearly tense.

And beside him, Deputy Director Jack Rosen, looking for all the  
world like a Deputy Director in his graying hair, flawless suit and  
bland tie.

"I'm awake," he said, and cleared his throat to force his voice to  
work, even though the action caused him pain.

Scully nodded and led both the men in, Scully going to the side of  
the bed furthest from the door as Rosen took up the foot, Skinner  
staying near the door.

The room was crowded with three people in it, he thought. No wonder  
they had a "two-person" rule, which Skinner had gotten permission to  
break in the interest of "official FBI business." Kellerman had  
agreed reluctantly.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen said, nodding down to him. "How are you  
feeling?" He had a rich voice, his accent pure New York. Agents  
called him "The Godfather" behind his back.

"I'm all right, sir," Mulder replied, nodding back.

"Agent Scully tells me you've been making steady improvement," he  
replied, looking at Scully, then back at Mulder. "I'm relieved to  
hear that."

"Thank you," Mulder said faintly. "I'm doing my best."

Rosen shifted his weight, leaning on the foot of the bed, leaning  
closer. He addressed both Mulder and Scully, pursed his lips. "Well,"  
he said. "We have some talking to do, I think."

Skinner shifted, as well. "Deputy Director Rosen and I have been  
discussing the situation in the car on the way down from Winslow," he  
said, intent on his shoes.

"Yes, I've been fully briefed at this point," Rosen said. He spoke  
slowly, quietly. As if to himself. "I know about how you, Agent  
Mulder, came to the conclusion that it was the Irish Embassy that was  
going to be bombed, how you extrapolated that. I know about what  
happened in Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond."

He paused a beat and looked at Scully, clear regret in his eyes, and  
Mulder saw her look down, her cheeks pinking slightly, and was proud  
of her when she looked back up and met Rosen's gaze.

Then Rosen continued. "I know about your actions following that,  
Agent Mulder. About what's happened here. And I, of course, know  
about Robert Padden's involvement with all this, his apparent motives  
and his actions." He shook his head. "To say there were extenuating  
circumstances in this entire affair would be a gross understatement.  
Don't you agree?"

Mulder nearly cracked a smile, though Rosen didn't intend for the  
statement to be light at all.

"Yes, sir," Scully replied for them both.

Rosen continued. "And to say that you both are owed apologies for  
what you've been through with this would also be an understatement."  
He looked down. "You'll both be compensated for the time you were  
away, of course. I think, given the circumstances under which this  
all occurred, you've both handled this, for the most part, in the  
best manner you could. And you'll both have whatever time it takes  
for you to recover from your ordeal, as well."

"Thank you," Scully said softly, and Mulder nodded as Rosen looked  
up at both of them.

"There is one thing that I'd like to know from you both, however,"  
he said, standing straight again.

They waited.

Here it comes, Mulder thought, and he could see the same thought  
cross Scully's mind as her eyes came down again.

"How often can I expect to get reports of two of my agents violating  
procedures and tenants of professional conduct while on an  
investigation because they are involved in a personal relationship?"

Mulder felt heat rising in his own face at the blatant mention of he  
and Scully's relationship. It had been a secret for so long that  
hearing it spoken aloud by the Deputy Director was jarring as hell.

Then he considered how to answer Rosen's question. He knew the  
answer Rosen wanted to hear, but he also knew that given the same set  
of circumstances, he would do the same thing again.

Scully's momentary silence seemed to indicate she had come to the  
same conclusion.

"Sir," Scully began at last. "The situation I was involved in at  
that time of the operation warranted my contacting Agent Mulder. He  
was the Chief Profiler on the case, and Dr. Padden had made it  
impossible for us to have contact. I was concerned about the status  
of my cover and afraid for my life."

"Agent Scully," Rosen said, crossing his arms. "I understand you had  
some compelling reasons for your actions. But I hope you're not going  
to stand here and try to convince me that your personal relationship  
with Agent Mulder had nothing to do with your decision to call him."

Scully met his eyes, and Mulder saw something flare in them.

"Agent Mulder's expertise and our relationship as partners for seven  
years prior to this incident was the basis for my call," she said  
evenly. "Our personal relationship is a part of that partnership at  
this juncture, admittedly. So no, sir, I'm not going to try to  
convince you of that."

"And you, Agent Mulder?" Rosen asked. "Are you going to tell me your  
feelings for Agent Scully had nothing to do with your decision to go  
to her that night?"

"No, I'm not going to tell you that, sir," Mulder said, as  
unapologetically as Scully.

"Well, I have to tell you, Agents, that causes me some concern."  
Rosen put his hands back on the footboard, tapped lightly with one  
hand. "A great deal of concern, in fact. Agents who are willing to  
put their feelings for one another ahead of things like proper  
investigative and tactical procedures...they're not much use to the  
Bureau."

Mulder drew in a deep breath through the canula, spoke. "Agent  
Scully was being put in a situation of tremendous and unnecessary  
risk. She knew that. I did. Granger did. And so did Padden, as we  
well know now."

He stopped, took another breath. Pain throbbed as he inhaled, and he  
had to close his eyes for a second. He felt Scully shift beside him,  
noting the pain he was in. He opened his eyes, nodded to her, then  
continued.

"Given those circumstances, it was entirely appropriate for her to  
do what she needed to do to protect herself." He looked at Rosen with  
his tired eyes.

"That wasn't her decision to make, Agent Mulder," Rosen replied, but  
he sounded more fatigued than angry. "Not according to regulations."  
He looked at Scully, who was nodding.

"Yes, sir," she said. "That is true. It was not my decision to make.  
I did violate procedure by doing what I did, and I'm prepared for the  
consequences of that violation."

"Yes," Mulder added. "I am, as well."

Rosen seemed to consider this. Mulder watched Skinner looking from  
Rosen to them and back again.

"You still haven't answered my initial question, Agents," Rosen  
said. "How many times am I going to get a report like this?"

Mulder looked up at Scully, and she at him.

"I would hope that the same sort of circumstances wouldn't arise  
that would warrant such actions on either of our parts," Scully said  
quietly.

Rosen nodded. Mulder could tell Rosen was aware that neither he or  
Scully had apologized for what they'd done, and that he didn't like  
it.

"But if they did?" Rosen pressed.

"Then my guess is we would both do the same thing we did, sir,"  
Mulder said, and his voice was hoarse now. "But short of those  
circumstances...no. You would not receive that report."

Rosen looked to Scully, who nodded.

Rosen sighed, crossed his arms again, regarding them both.

"Convince me that I shouldn't separate you, Agents," he said after a  
moment. His voice was harder than it had been.

"Our solve rate comes to mind," Mulder said instantly, unable to  
keep the edge out his voice.

"Yes, there is that," Rosen said, nodding. "But there's no saying  
that you both wouldn't be equally as effective with other partners,  
in different divisions." He paused. "I need a better reason than  
that."

Again, Mulder and Scully were silent, considering.

"I'll make it easy on you," Rosen said. "Give me *one* reason why I  
shouldn't separate you. The one thing I can't refute."

Mulder felt his heart sinking at that. That didn't make it easy on  
them. It made it impossibly hard. Scully looked down at him, and he  
told her he had no answer with his eyes.

Then something came over Scully's features. She raised her chin,  
pulled in a breath, and looked at Rosen. Her eyes were flint.

"That," she said. "Despite everything that was put up against us,  
everything that's happened to us, we're both still alive. And that is  
*only* because we were together through it."

Mulder thought about that in the silence that fell among them. As if  
to prove Scully's point, the only sound in the room was that of his  
own heartbeat on the monitor, an even sound, comforting to him in its  
predictability.

He glanced at Scully, loving her for the answer.

Rosen regarded Scully for a long moment, his arms still crossed.  
Then, something softened in him, and he glanced at Mulder, then  
turned and looked at Skinner. Skinner nodded.

"All right, Agents," he said, uncrossed his arms. "We'll give it  
another go. But I must warn you now. I want separate motel room  
receipts while you're in the field. I want the personal out of the  
office. I want things neat and clean and by the numbers from now on.  
Am I clear on that?"

"Very, sir," Scully said.

Mulder nodded, pulled in another deep breath, and this time the pain  
hitched in him, a bolt going from his belly to his back. He couldn't  
help it, but he cringed, stiffening as he held his breath, his eyes  
closing.

"Mulder?" Scully said softly, concern in her voice. "You can have  
another dose now. Go ahead and take it."

Mulder opened his eyes, nodded. He fumbled for the small wand and  
sunk his thumb on the button, the pump beeping.

"I'm going to leave you alone, Agent Mulder," Rosen said. "Let you  
get some rest. I'm going to be coming back this afternoon to get a  
few gaps filled in from Assistant Director Skinner's accounts to me.  
But that can wait."

Mulder nodded, the familiar buzz starting in his head from the  
painkiller. His eyes drooped, but the pain became a touch more  
tolerable.

"I'll answer anything I can," he said, almost too quietly to hear.  
He felt sleep tugging on him, its irresistible pull. But his  
breathing had picked up again with the pain.

Debbie returned to the doorway, her concern etched more deeply in  
her features. "You're all going to have to go," she said. "We're  
getting concerned about his vitals."

He was vaguely aware of Scully turning to the monitors. "Yes, he  
needs to sleep," she said. She turned back to Rosen and Skinner. "If  
you'll both step out with me now?"

He smiled faintly, despite the pain. That was Doctor Scully talking.  
He'd know that voice anywhere. And not even Rosen outranked *her*.

The last thing he was aware of was the sound of footsteps, his eyes  
already closing as a drugged sleep touched him and pulled him under.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 24a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 24b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 24b.

 

**

Granger saw Rosen, Scully and Skinner outside the door to the ICU  
waiting room. He'd stationed himself at a couch across from the  
doorway so he could watch when they came out, so he could be  
conspicuous should Rosen decide he needed to talk to him.

He wanted to be of any use he could in all this, so he'd made sure  
he'd gotten back from the motel in time for the meeting.

He watched Rosen reach out, offer his hand to Scully, who shook it.  
They were speaking, but he couldn't make out all the words. He did  
hear the word "sorry" pass from Rosen to her. He wasn't sure what to  
make of that. Rosen could be sorry about a lot of things, splitting  
Mulder and Scully up one of them. He pursed his lips, trying to fill  
in the gaps.

Then Rosen turned toward the door and saw Granger sitting there. He  
led the way into the waiting room, Scully going to the corner where  
her mother was sitting, doing one of the crossword books Granger had  
brought back from the Walgreen's.

As she passed him, she snuck a glance at him, gave him a small  
smile, and nodded.

Granger let out a sigh. It had worked out all right. He felt a smile  
curling his lips, which vanished as Rosen made his way over to him,  
Skinner right behind.

Granger stood, wiped his hands on his jeans. His palms had been  
sweating.

Rosen stopped in front of him, Skinner beside him. Both of their  
faces were unreadable.

"Mr. Granger," Rosen began.

"Deputy Director Rosen," Granger replied, and Rosen reached his hand  
to him, and Granger shook it once.

"You've been enormously helpful in this whole business, Mr.  
Granger," Rosen continued, nodding to him. "Were it not for your help  
in this matter, I'm not sure things would have worked out as well as  
they have." He glanced around the waiting room. "If you can call this  
'well,'" he added.

"I do call it 'well,' yes," Granger said, and chanced a smile. Rosen  
gave him a rough approximation of one back.

"I understand you've left the CIA," Rosen said, and Granger nodded.

"Yes," he replied. "That's not the kind of work I want to do  
anymore. I'm a bit disgusted by the whole thing, if you'll pardon my  
saying so."

Rosen nodded, pinned Granger with his gaze. "What kind of work is it  
that you do want to do, Mr. Granger?"

The question took him off guard, and he was silent for few seconds.  
"I'm not sure what you mean," he said finally.

"I mean, is it profiling you don't want to do, or being in law  
enforcement in general, or being an agent? What would you like to  
keep and what would you like to leave behind?"

Granger considered. "I've spent my life learning to profile. I'd  
like to find some capacity -- somewhere -- to do that. I'd like to  
stay in law enforcement in some way, as well. But being an  
agent...that I will be leaving behind."

Rosen nodded again. "I see," he said. "Well, why don't you come work  
for me?"

Granger gaped, looking from Skinner to Rosen and back. Skinner's had  
a slight smile on his face. He nodded to Granger.

"In...what capacity?" Granger asked.

Rosen put his hands behind his back, stood straight, regarding  
Granger even more seriously. "Violent Crimes. As a civilian profiler.  
I think I can make room on the staff for you, if you're interested.  
You would advise the agents on various cases. Not a lot of field  
work, but it would still be profiling. And you'd still be in law  
enforcement."

Granger was quiet for a few seconds, and Rosen pressed forward.

"It might be a slight pay cut from the CIA, but not much." He  
paused, still regarding Granger with his business-like gaze. "What do  
you say, Mr. Granger? You need a job. I need someone with the clear  
investigative talents and dedication to the work that you've  
demonstrated."

Granger found himself smiling now. He nodded.

"Yes, sir," he said at last. "That sounds like a wonderful  
opportunity. I'd be very interested in that."

Rosen nodded, looked at Skinner, who did the same. "Assistant  
Director Skinner will see to the details. When can you start?"

Granger looked around the room, glancing at Scully and then back  
into Rosen's face.

"I was intending on using some of the time Agent Mulder is in the  
hospital here to go do some sightseeing," he said, and looked down  
shyly. "Grand Canyon, that sort of thing. I've never been to the  
Southwest before and, well, I'd like to see more of it than I have."  
He met Rosen's gaze again. "Then I thought I'd make myself available  
to help get Agent Mulder back to Washington. I think Agent Scully  
will probably need some help with that."

"I see," Rosen said, his face coming up with that same stiff smile.  
"See this thing through to the end, as it were."

Granger nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "It feels like the right thing  
to do."

"Well, that would be fine," Rosen replied, and he reached his hand  
out again and Granger took it. "I'll expect to see you in the Hoover  
Building in a few weeks then." Rosen shook his hand and let it go.

"Thank you, sir," Granger said.

Rosen nodded, and with that, he headed for the door.

Skinner stood there, his face amused.

"What's so funny?" Granger said, smiling back.

Skinner looked to the side, back at him again. "I'm just really  
looking forward to having someone else at the FBI who's willing to  
break every rule in the book," he said wryly.

Granger chuffed. "I only do that when it's clear that everything  
going on around me is wrong," he replied. "Much like yourself, if you  
don't mind me saying." He grinned. "Not to worry, sir. I'll be good."

Skinner shook his head. "They should have never put you with  
Mulder," he said, and reached out to shake Granger's hand. "God help  
us all."

Now Granger laughed aloud, and Skinner's smile widened.

"I'll be in touch," Skinner said as their hands dropped, and they  
said goodbye, Skinner going to where Rosen had paused beside the  
door, waiting for him. The two men went out, leaving Granger, who was  
still smiling, behind them.

 

***********

 

APRIL 23  
(ONE WEEK LATER)  
9:28 a.m.

 

"Trust."

Albert Hosteen said the single word softly as Mulder put a hand up  
over his bare stomach, as if by reflex, to grip the older man's wrist  
and keep him from touching him. Hosteen reached with his other hand,  
took Mulder's, easing his grip off and then laying Mulder's hand back  
down beside him.

Scully watched all this, feeling for Mulder, but amused at Mulder's  
indoctrination into Hosteen's cryptic, gentle ways. She smiled to  
him, reassuring him.

Around them, morning sunlight pooled in the room, falling across the  
bed in warm bars through the open blinds in the spacious, private  
room. Scully closed her eyes as it warmed her where she sat in one  
the chairs in the room, the recliner where'd she spent most of the  
last three days since Mulder had been moved from the ICU.

Scully's mother was still back at the motel, Granger there, as well,  
just back from his week-long roadtrip around the state. If they were  
true to form, she thought, both would be in shortly.

Only Victor and Albert were here now, Victor sitting still in one of  
the chairs and watching his grandfather work.

She watched Mulder lean his head back down on the pillow. He  
swallowed nervously and nodded for Hosteen to continue.

Hosteen, dressed in a dark green shirt and his jeans, a wide red  
ceremonial headband around his forehead, leaned back over Mulder, a  
soft leather bag filled with things that clinked softly together as  
he shifted it in one hand. He rolled it in his fingers. The other  
hand he carefully lay on the bump of the dressing over Mulder's  
stomach.

He said something in Navajo, rolled the bag again, gently moved his  
hand from side to side over Mulder's bandage. Mulder lay very still  
as he did this, but his fists were balled at his sides.

Scully watched, interested and warmed by Hosteen's intention with  
the ceremony. She'd learned to be open to Hosteen's ways, and though  
she didn't share his faith, she could see no harm in what he was  
doing.

And who knew, she thought, letting out a calm breath. It might even  
do some good.

She smiled as she opened herself to the possibility.

A few more phrases in Navajo and Hosteen removed his hand, set the  
bag down. Then he reached for a small box, no larger than a ring box,  
that he had laying next to Mulder's thigh. He opened it carefully,  
pressed his finger into it, darkening the tip of his finger with the  
contents.

Then he reached up to Mulder's pale forehead, smoothing Mulder's  
hair away from his face. Once he had Mulder's skin completely  
exposed, he drew a line down the center of Mulder's forehead with the  
dark substance -- ash, she guessed by the way it flaked, sending dark  
flecks onto Mulder's brow.

Then he dipped his finger into the box again and crossed the line  
horizontally. Scully was reminded of Ash Wednesday with the mark that  
Hosteen had left, though the mark was much larger.

Hosteen finished by laying his hand on Mulder's hairline, his eyes  
closed, for a few seconds. Mulder's eyes drifted closed at the touch,  
as well.

Scully watched, and for some reason the sight made her eyes burn  
with tears. She blinked them back.

"There," Hosteen said, and removed his hand. He looked down at  
Mulder and smiled, that same twinkle in his eyes. "You are cured."

Mulder laughed stiffly. Scully smiled.

"All right, you are not cured," Hosteen amended, snapping the box  
closed and lifting the bag. He pressed both into this pockets. "But  
it will help. I promise."

"Thank you," Mulder said, and he clearly meant it. He'd only  
recently regained his full voice, the full tenor, and Scully was  
happy every time she heard the strength of it. Mulder was coming back  
to himself slowly but surely.

"You are very welcome, Agent Mulder," Hosteen said, reached up and  
took off the headband, holding it in his hand. He looked at he and  
Scully. "Time for us to go home now."

Scully nodded, stood, as did Victor. Victor touched the brim of his  
baseball cap as he looked at Scully.

"Take care, Agent Scully," he said, and Scully found his shyness  
around her sweet. Victor wasn't used to being around women much, and  
sometimes it really showed.

"I will, Victor. Thank you for everything."

"Any time," Victor said softly. "I'm glad you're doing so much  
better."

Scully angled her head, accepting what he said.

Then Victor turned to Mulder on the bed. He gripped Mulder's hand  
hard, tugging on it slightly. Mulder grinned at him.

"When you coming back to learn how to break horses?" Victor asked.

Mulder chuckled again. "Yeah, right. As if I haven't had my ass  
kicked enough lately."

"Oh come on," Victor chided. "You'll be good at it. Chaco's all  
right, you know. I'll keep her ready for you. You get your holes  
healed up and come take a vacation with me. I'll show you what to  
do."

"All right," Mulder relented, and Victor let go of his hand,  
satisfied.

"All right," he repeated. "Be well, Mulder."

"You, too, Victor," Mulder replied, and Victor drifted out of the  
room into the hallway.

It was Mulder who reached his hand toward Hosteen first, and Hosteen  
took it, held it for a few seconds, shaking it slightly.

"I owe you my life again," Mulder said, his voice quiet, somber. "We  
both do. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you for what  
you've done for us."

Hosteen let go his hand. "No need to repay me, Agent Mulder," he  
said. "You have done and continue to do what is right. That is all  
the payment I need. I was glad to help you again. Someday perhaps you  
will return the favor to me. Who knows what may happen. Just see to  
Bo for me, all right? If he does not fall in love with your friend  
Granger, who has him in his motel room now." Hosteen winked.

Mulder nodded, smiled, as Scully always saw him do when Bo was  
mentioned. It made her smile, as well.

Man and his dog, indeed, she thought, shaking her head.

"I will see to him," Mulder replied.

Hosteen looked at Scully, then at him. "And remember what I told you  
about the geese, Agent Mulder. One goes down, and the other waits. Do  
not worry yourself about the time on the ground. It is the cycle of  
things. Especially when one is bound for life."

Mulder nodded, glancing at Scully. "I'll remember," Mulder said  
softly, smiling again. "Goodbye, Mr. Hosteen."

"Goodbye," Albert said, and then he looked at Scully, nodded toward  
the hallway.

Perplexed by their exchange but understanding his intention now, she  
followed him out.

Victor was down at the end of the hallway at the elevators,  
something unspoken having passed between them about Albert's need to  
be alone with the agents. Scully looked at Victor, then up into  
Hosteen's face. He was smiling.

"I hope you will not find this to be a condescending thing for me to  
say," Hosteen began. "But I am very pleased with all you have done. I  
hope you are pleased, as well."

He did not say "proud," but Scully knew that was what he meant. The  
tears stung her again, and she had to look away, down at his booted  
feet.

"No," she said. "I don't find it condescending at all. I'm glad to  
know that. And yes, I am pleased." Her voice grew faint at the last,  
trailing off.

"You should be," Hosteen replied, but she still could not meet his  
gaze, though she could feel it. "What you have been through, what  
you've done since...it is a very difficult thing to do. Shows a  
strength that everyone around you can see now."

Now she did look up, and the tears were there. "I..." She hesitated,  
glanced down, then up again. "I couldn't have done this without you,"  
she finished. "I don't know if you'll ever know how true that is. How  
important what you've done for me has been." She wiped at her face  
quickly, sniffed, looked down again.

"You did most of it yourself," he said gently, reaching out to tip  
her chin up, leaving a dot of ash on her pale skin. His eyes were  
shining. "You just needed a guide. I was simply your guide. Nothing  
more."

"You underestimate yourself, Mr. Hosteen," she said.

"You have done the same," he replied. "But I do not think you will  
so much anymore."

She smiled a small smile at that, though the tears were still  
coming. "I hope you're right," she whispered.

"We are not saying goodbye," he said, his chin coming up. "You and  
Mulder will come see me. I have feelings about things like this. We  
will see each other again."

"I've learned to trust your feelings," she replied.

Albert smiled to her, and she smiled back, wiping her eyes again.

"It is not considered proper for me to do so, but I know in your  
culture it is a sign of friendship for two people to embrace on  
leaving one another." His voice was very formal, but there was a  
warmth beneath it.

"It is," she agreed, nodding.

He opened his arms to her then and she went into them, her head  
barely reaching his shoulder. As his arms closed around her shoulder,  
she let the tears come.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything you've done."

"You are welcome," he replied, and then he let her go, turned and  
started down the hallway toward Victor and the elevators.

She watched him go, stood there in the hallway as he waited for the  
elevator to come. Then he and Victor got in, and she met his eyes  
until the doors closed and he was gone.

She remained there for a long moment, nurses passing back and forth,  
a patient with a walker moving slowly down the hall, a nurse beside  
him with her hand on his arm.

She gathered herself, pulled in a breath and let it out, her eyes  
closing.

Then she opened them, feeling good. Feeling whole.

She turned and went back into the room, back toward Mulder and into  
the warm morning light.

 

*********

 

SKY HARBOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT  
PHOENIX, ARIZONA  
MAY 3 (TEN DAYS LATER)  
3:23 p.m.

 

"Come on, old man," Granger teased.

"Hey," Mulder protested, though he was panting. "Easy with  
the...'old man' stuff. I already feel...112..."

Scully walked backward down the aisle of the plane, poised should  
Mulder lose his balance or have his knees buckle on him. But then  
Granger was behind him with his arms beneath Mulder's, his hands  
barely reaching Mulder's shoulders but supporting him nonetheless. He  
was basically holding Mulder up.

Mulder took one slow step after another. His hands gripped the  
headrests of the plane's seats as they went through the first-class  
section toward the first row of seats in Coach, the wider aisle at  
the front of the section that faced the bulkhead. Scully had  
requested the row of two on the left side of the plane, thinking it  
would be easier for Mulder to turn and sit down there. His walking  
was still unsteady at best and she didn't want him having to twist  
too much.

"You okay, Mulder?" she asked, watching his face flush.

He nodded. "It's hurting a little," he admitted softly.

She swallowed. It must be hurting a lot for him to admit to it at  
all.

He'd been stoic since they'd left the hospital that morning, the  
four of them -- her mother still with her -- piling into an airport  
van they'd called all the way from Phoenix to carry them and Bo to  
Phoenix for the long trip back to Washington. The van had been almost  
full between the people and all their things, including Bo's rather  
large airline carrier that Granger had picked up for Scully at the  
local WalMart in Show Low.

She still remembered Bo shifting from side to side in the carrier as  
the baggage handlers had come to get him, Mulder speaking softly to  
him from his wheelchair beside the counter as the handlers took him  
away. The dog's familiar whine as he disappeared from sight through  
the doorway.

"I'll give you another shot when we get settled in," she said to  
Mulder now. "We're almost there. Just a few more steps."

He nodded, started walking again, Granger half-carrying him down the  
aisle.

They reached the front seats and Granger let Mulder go, Margaret  
Scully coming behind him with her and Scully's carry-ons, a flight  
attendant coming from the other direction.

"Is he okay?" the man asked. "Do you need anything?"

"A blanket and a pillow would be nice, thank you," Scully said  
quietly as Mulder eased himself into the seat nearest the window. He  
reached up and loosened his tie a bit, looking uncomfortable in his  
dark suit.

It was Skinner who had suggested the suits for them both, and for  
Granger. Skinner would be meeting them on the other end with a Bureau  
van to take them to Scully's apartment, but there had been a leak to  
the press -- most likely from the hospital or from someone at the  
airline. The press was involved in their story now and how it  
intersected with Padden's and Curran's.

Skinner had said to expect television cameras at Dulles.

The whole thing made Scully cringe. Mulder was still so weak. She  
was glad to have Granger and her mother there to help run  
interference.

Her mother had kept sandwiches coming and crackers in her purse and  
kept Scully's spirits up through the long waiting as Mulder slowly  
gained back some strength. And Granger had been taking of care of Bo  
for her since Hosteen had left Show Low. Things wouldn't have gone as  
smoothly as they had so far without their help.

Her mother handed her the carry-on bag, and Scully sat and began  
looting through it, pulling out a small bottle of Demoral and a  
syringe. Mulder still had an IV shunt in the back of his hand (pills  
weren't yet a good option, given his stomach), and Scully began  
drawing the medication as the attendant came back with a blanket and  
a pillow. He set them on the floor.

"Let me know if you need anything else," the man said. "We're just  
about to start general boarding."

"Thank you," Scully said again. "I appreciate you letting us get on  
first."

"No problem," and then he drifted back up the aisle.

Granger and her mother took the window and the aisle across from  
them, buckling themselves in. Scully tapped the syringe, cleared the  
air from it, then braced Mulder's arm with hers, careful not shake  
him with her trembling, as she injected the drug into his hand.

"Thank you," he said, and she stood in front of him, fumbling around  
his hips for the seat belts, clicking them in place over his hips.  
Then she settled back down in her seat and buckled herself in.

People began bumping their way down the aisle, a line of normal  
faces -- older couples; women with children, men behind them carrying  
car seats; younger people with headphones already in place and t-  
shirts that spouted designers' names and slogans; businessmen talking  
on cell phones before the doors closed behind them.

It was so normal that Scully found it surreal. She and Mulder could  
be anywhere, going home to Washington from any case. She shook her  
head, struck by how much of her life she'd been away from, and for  
how long.

So much time gone by -- more than five months since she and Mulder  
had gone to Richmond, and so much change since then. So much pain,  
first, and then so much more than that. The ease that comes at the  
healing from intense pain. The simple joy of that.

It choked her to think about it.

She turned and saw her mother leaning forward, looking at her  
through the line of people.

"You okay?" her mother said softly, and Scully nodded, forced a  
smile. Her mother nodded and leaned back.

Soon the heavy pull of take-off, the buckskin desert and mountains  
out the window.

Beside her, Mulder slept, tucked beneath the flimsy blue blanket  
emblazoned with United Airlines' logo. He'd forsaken the pillow and  
had his face turned toward her but not quite touching her, his hand  
lightly clasping hers, even in his sleep.

She watched the window, watched the sky turn from cerulean blue to  
dark blue to navy, and finally into darkness as the plane left the  
sun behind it.

Three hours into the flight, Mulder still asleep, she gave him  
another shot, being careful not wake him, so they would not arrive in  
Washington with him in pain.

Then she sat back, felt herself ease as the plane nosed further  
east, and after a few minutes, she finally slept herself.

*

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the 'fasten seat  
belt' sign in preparation for our descent into the Washington D.C.  
Metropolitan Area..."

Scully pulled herself awake, took in her surroundings with some  
surprise, then she relaxed, pulling her suit jacket back into place,  
uncramped her neck. Looking to her right, she saw her mother  
engrossed in a book, the light over her seat illuminating the  
paperback in her hands. Granger was asleep, his glasses slightly  
askew.

She turned her face toward Mulder, who was still dozing next to her,  
almost touching her shoulder now, his face supremely peaceful in his  
sleep.

She let go of his hand, leaned forward as far as the seat belt would  
allow and looked out the window.

Below her, the headlights of the beltway, the cluster of brightness  
that was D.C., far off in the distance.

The city where her life was waiting. Her and Mulder's life.

She smiled as she saw the lights draw closer, leaned back to her  
seat and inched her face toward Mulder's, touching her lips to his  
cheek, which didn't stir him. Then she moved over to his mouth and  
pressed her lips to his, staying there until she felt him draw in a  
breath, though his eyes did not open.

Instead of speaking, he leaned down and kissed her again, lingering.  
His hand tightened around hers.

She reached up, touched the side of his face, stroking his smooth  
cheek.

"Mulder, wake up," she whispered, and he opened his eyes. They were  
shining in the cabin's dim light. She nodded toward the window and he  
turned to look out it, then back to her face.

"We're home, Mulder," she said softly, gave his hand a squeeze. He  
smiled.

Then she leaned back up in the darkness, her hand still on the side  
of his face.

The plane banked north, the city of light stretching out beneath  
them.

Smiling, she kissed him again.

 

**********

 

END OF CHAPTER 24b. CONTINUED IN EPILOGUE (CHAPTER 25).

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is the Epilogue (Chapter 25).

**********

 

GEORGETOWN  
WASHINGTON D.C.  
DECEMBER 24  
CHRISTMAS EVE  
(SEVEN MONTHS LATER)  
8:35 p.m.

 

Scully opened the door to her apartment, Bo's nose going through the  
door first, his black muzzle pushing the door all the way open as he  
pressed his body into the living room. Scully was right behind him,  
already tucking the mail beneath her arm as she reached down to  
unclip the dog's green-and-red striped leash from the matching collar.

Scully smiled as she looked at the collar and leash -- both of which  
had appeared during the time they'd left Bo with Granger while they  
went to Pennsylvania on a case. Granger was such a wonderful sap, she  
thought. Only he would think about getting his "foster dog," as he  
called Bo, a Christmas leash and collar.

She'd found the whole thing corny but decidedly sweet. Granger  
really did like keeping Bo. He said a part-time dog was the best kind  
of dog to have, and with the amount of time she and Mulder spent in  
the field, she was glad for the sentiment on his part. He made  
keeping the dog possible.

"Did he eat already?" she asked as she entered the apartment, Mulder  
right behind her.

"Yeah, Granger fed him before we got there for dinner," he replied,  
already loosening the rich maroon tie he wore with his black suit.  
"He's been out already, too, he said."

She handed the leash back to Mulder, and he gathered it into his  
hand and set it on the armoire by the door as Bo trotted into the  
living room as if he owned the place.

He basically did, she thought, watching the sleek dog go for the  
floor in front of the couch where he'd left his Booda Bone, his  
winter coat thick and making his well- muscled body look soft and  
shiny.

Bo whined as he found the big yellow bone and settled down in front  
of the coffee table with it gripped between his paws, gnawing  
instantly as if he'd been thinking about the thing the three days  
he'd been gone from the apartment.

Mulder closed the door behind them, turned the lock and went  
immediately to the tree in the corner of the living room, plugging it  
in. The tree lit up with its dots of white light, the ornaments  
gleaming and the packages beneath the tree bathing in the soft  
shadows of its needles.

Scully smiled as she saw it, going to the tall table that reached  
the couch's back, setting the stack of mail down with her keys and  
stretching, smoothing the back of her black dress down.

"So you like Robin then," Mulder said, loosening his maroon tie and  
stripping out of his dark suit jacket.

Scully nodded. "Yes, she seems very nice, and she seems to make  
Granger happy. He dotes over her." Her smile widened. "It's very  
funny to watch."

Mulder came up to her then, curled his arms around her waist and  
tugged her against him. "And I don't dote over you?" he asked, his  
voice teasing but deep.

"Not like that, thank God," Scully said, her arms going around his  
neck. They kissed softly once. Twice. She felt his hands going up to  
her shoulder blades, then down again to the small of her back. The  
beginnings of an urgency she knew so well from him, one that she  
loved.

"It feels good to be able to touch you," he said against her cheek.

"It's only been three days, Mulder," she said, but the words pleased  
her.

"Three *long* days in the field..." he replied, and his hands  
cradled her hips, pulling her closer against him.

"The case was your idea," she replied, nuzzling him. "It wasn't mine  
to go out three days before Christmas chasing--"

"Don't say it."

"--a lonely 50-year old man in a Yeti outfit scaring children and  
cows." She couldn't help herself, and the laugh bubbled out of her.  
He leaned back and rolled his eyes.

"Now how was I supposed to know that?" he asked, pressed his  
forehead to hers. "The pictures looked very authentic and you know  
it."

She laughed again. "If I'd looked more carefully I would have seen  
the zipper," she murmured, and kissed him again. He tried to deepen  
it, his hands tightening on her hips, but she pulled back slightly,  
her fingers in the fringe of his short-cropped hair above his stiff  
white collar.

"You promised me we could open gifts tonight," she said softly.

"We can..." he replied, his voice thick. "Later."

She shook her head and stepped back now, straightening her dress for  
effect.

"I've just had a wonderful dinner with Granger and Robin and I'm  
pleasantly stuffed with chicken curry and good wine. It's Christmas  
Eve and we have until noon tomorrow before we have to be at my  
mother's." Her eyes twinkled with a childlike pleasure. "And I've  
been shaking that box you have for me under the tree for two weeks  
now when you weren't looking and I'm ready to know what's in it."

He smiled, put his hands in his pockets. "All right, all right," he  
relented. "Can we at least change first? I want out of this suit."

"Agreed," she said, and gave him another smile, and they headed for  
the bedroom.

The drawers on the right side of the dresser were his now, and  
Scully watched him rummage through them for his sweatpants and a t-  
shirt. Most of his clothes were here, in fact, his apartment nearly  
abandoned since their return from Arizona. He spent maybe two nights  
a week there, just enough to give them each a taste of their previous  
solitude and make them appreciate both the time alone and the times  
when they were together more.

She pulled off her shoes and black hose, watching the smooth plane  
of his back as he undressed, the scar on it a small distraction from  
the lovely play of muscle as he pulled the t-shirt over his head,  
stepped into the sweats, drawing them up over his navy boxers.

She went for her side of the dresser now, pulled out a pair of white  
silk pajamas, began to unbutton her dress.

"You want tea?" he asked, and she nodded. "I'll go put on the  
kettle." And he moved out of the room.

She undressed languidly, dressed just the same. She heard Mulder  
turn the radio on in the living room, instrumental Christmas carols  
lilting back to her. She smiled and rejoined him just as the kettle  
began to whistle.

He was in the kitchen, Bo leaned up against his legs, the bone in  
the dog's mouth. Mulder was petting him absently as he poured boiling  
water into the teapot. She gathered the cups and took them to the  
living room, and he brought the tea, not far behind her. He sat on  
the couch, laying the pot on the coffee table next to the cups.

Bo sprawled out beside the couch closest to Mulder, letting out a  
slow breath as though he were deflating, and she began looting under  
the tree, pulling out boxes, looking for the one she'd been so  
interested in. It was a smallish rectangular one that was quite  
heavy.

"Just one tonight, remember?" he chided. "That was the deal."

"I've got it," she replied. "Which one do you want?"

He pointed to a gold-foil wrapped package close to the base of the  
tree. "That one. The one with the green bow that's kind of small that  
it looks like you've been trying to hide."

She balked as she reached for it. It was the gift she had the most  
apprehension about, the one she'd thought long and hard about giving  
him at all.

"You sure you want that one?" she tried.

"I do," he said, mock-stern. "You got to pick yours and that's mine."

"All right," she said, and picked up the package, replacing the  
boxes before she returned to the couch, sitting beside him.

"You first," he said, smiling to her. She smiled back, looking down  
at the box in his hands. She was nervous looking at it.

"You okay?" he asked, touching her chin to make her look into his  
face.

"Yes," she said, and gave him a smile with a little less anxiety  
behind it. She did her best to shake the feeling off. "Okay, I'll go  
first."

She picked up the heavy box, started on the paper carefully.

"Are we saving paper?" he asked after a long few seconds.

"I hadn't planned to," she said, intent on pulling the paper apart  
at the joined seams.

"Then RIP IT OPEN," he said, and she laughed with him.

"Okay," she said, and did as she was told.

A plain white box, heavy cardboard, giving nothing away. She worked  
the top open, peered inside.

A globe of glass in the dim light of the lamp behind her. She  
reached for it, cradled it in her palm as she turned the box upside-  
down and let the globe slip into her hand.

She held it up to the light. Her eyes stung, but she was smiling.

A snowglobe. This one glass with a heavy metal base. Inside it, a  
carved castle with spires topped with tiny ribbons, the windows  
looking like stained glass.

"Oh, Mulder," she said softly.

"Here," he said, reaching over. "It does this, too." She let him  
take it from her and watched as he turned it over in his hand,  
winding a butterfly winder in the base. He returned it upright, snow  
falling inside it, as he handed it back to her.

Pachebel's Canon in D started to play, and as the music started, the  
windows in the castle lit up, the whole globe glowing with red and  
blue and golden light.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered.

He smiled to her. "I thought..." He hesitated, continued. "I thought  
you might like a new one."

She looked at him, and the tears did rim her eyes now, remembering  
that day in Arizona at the motel. That terrible day.

Then she looked at the beautiful thing in her hand now, at his  
smile, his hand coming out to push her hair behind her ear.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, and she shook her head,  
leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, cradling the side of his  
head in her hand, her thumb stroking his ear.

"It's okay," she said, still close to his face, and he nuzzled at  
her, nodded. She leaned back, looked down at the snowglobe again.  
"Thank you so much for this."

"You're welcome," he murmured. She set the snowglobe down on the  
table gently, folded her hands in her lap as she regarded him with  
his box.

"My turn?" he asked, and she could see he was watching her face,  
confused by her reaction to the gift he held. His voice sounded a  
little uncertain.

She swallowed. "Yes," she said, nodded.

"Scully," he said gently. "You know I'll like anything you give me  
because it's from you."

She nodded. "I know. Go ahead and open it."

He gave her one last quizzical look, then pulled the bow off,  
reaching down and sticking it on Bo's head to get her to smile. The  
dog didn't stir, but she did smile. Then he started in on the paper.

In a few seconds he had the thing out, and was holding it up into  
the light to get a good look at it.

"My God, Scully," he murmured.

She looked at the gift. A shadowbox picture frame, gold at the  
edges. And inside it, professionally mounted against the backing --

A pressed pink sweetheart rose.

"It's..." She saw him swallow and keep himself from continuing.

"It's Emily's rose," she finished for him, and his face shot toward  
hers. She nodded at his stunned expression.

"Yes," she whispered. "I do believe that now."

Emotion crossed his face -- surprise, then a touch of sadness at the  
memory of that time, then a tiny smile.

"I got it from my mother a few weeks ago," she continued. "I wanted  
you to have it. I thought it was right that you should have it."

"But...but why me, Scully?" he asked, looking from the rose to her.  
"Why give this to me? My God. It's what you have left of her."

She took in a breath, let it out, unable to meet his eyes as she  
spoke. "The one thing you have always wanted from me, since we first  
met, has been my belief," she said quietly. "And I haven't been able  
to give that to you for most of the time we've been together."

She paused, and now she did look up at him. His eyes were filling  
with tears.

"And now...with everything we've been through...with so many things  
I can't explain and with the trust that I have in you, the love I  
have for you...I offer you that belief. As much as I'm able to give  
it."

She watched a tear come down his cheek, catching in the light as he  
looked at her.

"It is what I have left of her," she whispered. "And I want to share  
that with you. I want her to be, like everything else in our lives  
now, ours."

She was in his arms then, his grip almost too tight as emotion swept  
over him. She was crying, as well, but pressed her lips to the side  
of his throat, feeling his breathing hitch.

"God, I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too," she replied in the same voice.

"No one's ever given me anything like this," he said, the tears in  
his voice. "Not in my life..."

She smiled, the tears still coming. "You're welcome, Mulder," she  
murmured, and turned, tasting salt on his lips as she kissed him  
again.

This time the kiss did deepen, his hand cradling her face, their  
faces angling. Her hands trailed down his chest, her palms pressed  
flat against him.

"Let me make love to you now," he murmured, breathless, as they  
separated, coming up for air. "Please..."

She nodded. "Yes," she replied, wiping at his cheeks, and he kissed  
her again, set the frame carefully down and stood.

"Give me a minute," he said, and he touched the side of her face. "I  
want...just give me a minute."

"Okay," she replied, gave him a smile as she turned her face and  
kissed his hand. "I'll wait."

With that he withdrew, going down the hallway toward the bedroom. Bo  
rose and fell in behind him, the bow still on his head. They both  
threw shadows from the bedroom light as they went.

She closed her eyes, blood singing in her veins, giving her a warm  
flush. She could feel it already. The cool of night air against her  
bare skin. His warm mouth on her body. The press of his weight as he  
wrapped himself around her, over her. The opening of her body to him,  
the feel of the soft skin of his hips against the insides of her  
thighs.

The feeling of fullness, and the heat, and the sweat.

All of it as natural to them as air and breath.

She opened her eyes, gazed down at her hands as she smiled with it,  
her body quickening. Readying.

Both her hands were calm and still, her palms open in her lap,  
holding shadows and light.

The smell of scented candles came from the bedroom, the light going  
off in the doorway, replaced by the flickering of tiny flames.

She rose then, went to the kitchen and switched off the light,  
washing the room with darkness. Then she moved to the table behind  
the couch, reached beneath the gold glass shade to turn the lamp off,  
as well.

Then something caught her eye, there in the pile of mail. A splash  
of something pink against a background of white.

She reached down and drew it out from the pile, looked at it for a  
moment, puzzled.

A footprint. Pink. A baby's footprint pressed to the back of a plain  
white postcard. She turned it over, saw her name and address printed  
neatly on the front, the postmark a General Delivery. Somewhere in  
Australia.

She turned the postcard over again, looked at the footprint. Beneath  
it, in tiny neat lettering, two words.

Katherine Ann.

The smile that broke over her face was wide and open and delighted.  
She traced the footprint with her finger -- the tiny lines. The  
wrinkles of it. The dots of toes and the curve of a tiny heel. She  
touched the postcard to her chest.

"Scully?" Mulder called from the doorway to the bedroom, and she  
turned toward him, saw him backlit by the light of a dozen candles,  
the light playing over the bare skin of his back.

"I'm coming," she murmured, and he nodded, returned to the bedroom.

She slipped the postcard back in with the mail, hiding it in the  
flyers and bills.

Then she reached for the lamp and flicked it off, the Christmas tree  
the only light in the room now as she went to the bedroom, faint  
music filling the room, and the lights on the tree small and warm and  
bright as starlight.

 

*********

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS TO:
> 
> The readers: The emails of encouragement, the stalking, the  
> occasional analysis, the general cheerleading...it feeds a WIP  
> writer's heart and soul. It's great to know you're not writing into a  
> void, and many of you have made me feel like this mattered to you on  
> some level, and I appreciate that so much.
> 
> Thanks especially to Amy at the Haven and the Haven Stalkers for all  
> the support. Thanks to Missy J, csw, Linda, deb, Jen (the Screamer!)  
> and everyone else who wrote me regularly. I've loved hearing from  
> you.
> 
> The "Readers:" These are people who were not official betas to the  
> story, but who read for me, giving me general reactions and  
> occasional suggestions. Sue, Nlynn, Jean, Arwen, and Beth.
> 
> The Community: A great great big thank you to Scullyfic for the  
> support and the research help, on everything from what Spam looks and  
> tastes like (too many to name!), to the Irish neighborhoods in NY  
> (Mara and Lil Barb and others) to rock bands of the early 80s (Jill  
> and many many others). And everything in between. What a great place  
> to be. To Gwinne for her fondness for Pottery Barn furniture and her  
> friendship.
> 
> * Special thanks to Cindy for the medical advice. It's always good  
> to have a paramedic in your corner. Everyone should go out and get  
> one. ;o)
> 
> * To Kris at the Imaginarium for the wonderful website.
> 
> * To Sue and Nlynn for the great collages to augment the story.
> 
> And finally, the Betas: I know everyone says this, but I have the  
> greatest beta team on the planet (okay, so I'm a little biased on  
> that...):
> 
> To Shari: for everything from kicks in the rear to PR work, and for  
> keeping my website spiffy and up-to-date. For formatting and for  
> careful "eagle-eye" editing on the text itself and on  
> characterization. Nobody catches better. For her friendship and  
> concern through this experience. I feel privileged to have become her  
> friend through all this.
> 
> To Sheri: for the best fiction-writing lessons in the world and for  
> being hard on me once again so that I didn't take the easy way out of  
> what I was doing and so that I kept learning. For her friendship and  
> advice and cheerleading and support (like taking me fishing on the  
> Chesapeake Bay when I'd spent three days on a scene and couldn't get  
> it right. Caught some croaker and fixed the scene!) The best friend a  
> writer -- and a person -- could hope to have.
> 
> To Dani: my comrade-in-arms, who rolls up her sleeves and gets dirty  
> with me in this, helping me keep up with the plot (not an easy task!)  
> and telling me what a reader wants and how to make it fit with what I  
> want. For her loyalty and her companionship through long days of  
> writing. For her friendship, which means the world to me.
> 
> Writing can be a solitary and sometimes lonely activity, and they  
> have made sure that, for me, it has not been.
> 
>  
> 
> This story is dedicated to Shari, whose strength gives me strength,  
> whose faith gives me faith. I would not have started writing  
> fanfiction were it not for her, and it has given me more than I can  
> say, including some of the best friends of my life. I owe her a great  
> debt, and I hope this story is a small repayment of that debt.
> 
>  
> 
> Bone


End file.
